


Cold as Fire, Hot as Ice

by Camorra



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Arranged Marriage, King Shiki, Kings & Queens, M/M, political shenanagins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2019-09-27 00:04:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17151545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camorra/pseuds/Camorra
Summary: Announcing the marriage of:Orihara Izaya, Son of a Merchant, Mother of a Stray Litter of Kittens When He Was Eight, Heir to a Sizable Fortune, Breaker of Windows, Slayer of Spiders,-and-Shiki Haruya, Bastard King of the North.May the gods smile upon their union.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drx/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, dearest!  
> I hope I do this fantasy world of ours the justice it deserves.

“Why haven’t you left yet?”

“Trying to get rid of me, are you?” Shiki says, not looking up from sharpening his sword. Not that it isn’t ingrained in his muscle memory, but somethings need a careful attention to detail. 

“Yes,” Akabayashi says, bluntly. “Are you trying to waste my good, hard work in arranging your marriage just to not be there when he arrives? Think that will get you out of it?”

“I have things that need to be taken care of before I go.”

“It’s war,” Akabayashi says bluntly. “There will always be things to take care of. And as much as I hate to admit it, Aozaki isn’t  _ entirely _ fucking useless when it comes to bashing other’s heads in.”

“Yes, but—”

“But, what? The latrines won’t get scrubbed unless you’re there to personally oversee? Get on your damn nosorog, you control freak. We’re leaving.”

“Oh, so you’re coming now, too?” Shiki says, finally standing and sheathing his sword. It’s as sharp as it’s gonna get.

“Of course, you’re worse than a toddler, my liege. ’Sides, it isn’t exactly good strategy to let the monarch ride alone from an active battlefield.” 

“I can take care of myself.” Even if it is good to have an extra sword. 

“And I have snacks.”

“Oh, thank goodness I have you.”

“I know,” Akabayashi says, waiting until Shiki’s entirely up on his nosorog before he swings up onto his own. “Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t waste away to skin and bones. That’s not sexy at all.”

“And to think, I’ve lived my entire life in that pursuit. Wasted.”

“Don’t worry, sexy. I’ll get you back on track.” And with that, Akabayashi gives a click and his nosorog starts to trundle out of the camp, stomping as many toes as it can like the ass it is. It’s like its owner in that regard, really. 

Kroli k speeds up without being told once they break past the camp. She’s clever like that. Knows he has places to be. Might even forgive him one day for pushing her hard because he left a little later than he should have. 

A day later.

They’ll be riding through the night to make it in time. And it’s not friendly terrain. 

And yet, the battlefield is far closer than he would like to the castle. It’s not that his army is inexperienced. It’s not even that his enemies are particularly fierce. In fact, the enemy has lost a sizable number to simply not understanding their land. 

It’s just that not enough showed up when it would have mattered most. 

Out of the twelve tribes that inhabit the land, only five were represented at that first incursion through the mountain pass that divides his land with neighboring Litleig. Now, there’s eight, with four still reneging.

At least the Zashchita  _ graciously  _ decided to let the Oriharas through with no difficulty. Good of them, to let the answer to this war they’ve decided not to fight through their lands.

But with any luck, they’ll learn soon enough. 

Akabayashi drops back to talk to him instead of leaving Shiki to stare at his ass for the entire ride. It’s almost a shame, really. Akabayashi’s ass is much nicer than his conversation. 

“We should dismount soon.”

“Need to piss already?”

“Nah, just got a bad feeling.”

Krolik pulls to a stop almost immediately. She’s a smart girl. “A bad feeling, how?”

Akabayashi’s hand doesn’t hover over his eyepatch like it used to, but Shiki recognizes the signs all the same. “You saw something.”

“Might be nothing,” Akabayashi says lightly. 

But it’s never nothing. Akabayashi is always right, without fail. 

He paid a steep price to see things others can’t. Shiki’s never asked if he wanted or meant to pay and Akabayashi’s never said. 

“Maybe,” Shiki says, reaching for his swords. 

The forest gets denser the further they go in, as they descend into the forested valley. The stone becomes sand becomes dirt becomes soil and the trees grow from stunted little things to towering pines. Rabbits move in the underbrush and birds flutter in the trees and it’s peaceful.

Or, it should be.

The forest is eerily still and a heavy silence blankets the trees. 

Krolik tries to make her footsteps as light as she can, bless her, for all she’s one of the biggest things to walk the earth. 

Akabayashi stops, reaches behind him for a bow he doesn’t carry anymore and hasn’t for years. Losing his eye lost him one of the best skills he used to have. 

Doesn’t matter much when he leaps off of his nosorog, impaling a man on his knife with a wet plopping sound.

Shiki has enough time to note the colors, purple and black, before he’s swinging his own swords. 

The enemies’s spear are good for the plain but a nuisance in the forest where there’s no room to swing them, catching on trees and roots and rocks.

Shiki’s separated two heads from their bodies before they can get their spears up, the bodies crumpling to the ground. Shiki lands on the forest ground on his toes, in time for Akabayashi to skewer the last one from his crouch, the enemy’s sword stopped mid-arc and easy to bat away from completing its arc into Shiki’s head. 

Akabayashi puts his knives away. Four isn’t terrible odds against two.

It’s rougher odds against a surprised one.

“They knew,” Shiki says. “Of all the places to be in this forest, they were here.”

“Of course they were,” Akabayashi says. “And you know who told them to be here, don’t pretend you don’t.”

“Yeah,” Shiki sighs, swinging back up to his nosorog. “But let me pretend I can trust my army for a little while longer.”

 

“Izaya, sit properly please.”

“It’s not comfortable,” Izaya says, but pushes up so his back is in full contact with the carriage seat. “My ass is starting to go flat with all the sitting.”

“It’s not comfortable for the rest of us to have your legs sprawled all over the place,” Shirou says, sliding guilty so he’s sitting properly in his seat.

“Go run with the horses, if you’re so antsy,” Kyouko says, flipping to the next page in her book.

“But my knee hurts— oh you were talking to Izaya. Hey, Izaya, what happened to those books you brought?”

“I read them all,” Izaya says, propping a cheek on a hand. He’s really half tempted to swing out the door and run with the horses and risk whatever broken bones and wrath may fall on his head.

“Well, if you’ve read all that then let me give you some pointers for your wedding night,” Mairu says, leaning across Kururi’s lap and her embroidery so she can come closer to Izaya’s face. Far too close.

“ _ Mairu _ ,” Kyouko snaps. 

“ _ What _ ?” Mairu says, “it’s key to a good marriage. It says so in the books.”

“Mairu,” Kyouko says, rubbing the bridge of her nose in her fingers. “What have I told you about those books?”

“Uh,” Mairu says, sitting back in her seat. 

“False,” Kururi says. 

“That’s right,” Kyouko says, “they don’t reflect reality.”

“But,” Mairu says, “brother needs to know how to pleasure his husband—”

Alright, out it is. 

The door swings out easily and Izaya drops lightly to his feet, deftly avoiding potholes. The dirt is different here. Softer. Less traveled and less hard packed and less well-kept. Strange plants that Izaya’s only seen before in books encroach on the road and it’s far narrower than any other he’s traveled. But at least there is a road, he’d half expected they’d have to climb the last leg of the journey. 

The horses are careful and slow, clopping along the road at a far more relaxed pace than they had before.

Or perhaps it’s not the horses that are so careful.

“Master Orihara,” Kine says, calling from the back of the caravan, and Izaya falls back so Kine call yell at him more easily. “It’s not safe for you to be out of the carriage.” 

“It’s not safe for me to be  _ in  _ the carriage,” Izaya quips back, skipping along. 

“Savages control these areas,” Kine hisses. “What if they see you?”

“Savages control the whole country,” Izaya says lightly. “And I hardly think being in or out of the carriage would make much difference if anyone decided to attack. Would probably be worse, actually, all of us sitting like fish in a barrel, ne?”

“Would you at least like to ride,” Kine says, already gesturing at one of the guards to dismount. 

“No thank you,” Izaya says primly, “I’d like to be able to fit in my wedding dress still.”

“It’s not proper—”

But Izaya’s tuned him out. Poor Kine, so stuck on proper ways and tradition. It’s a wonder he’s volunteered to stay behind with Izaya, in this land of heathens. Perhaps he hopes to be a missionary of sorts, bringing the good news of chopsticks and indoor plumbing to the people.

Izaya wishes him luck and hopes he tries to hold his sermons in earshot. They promise to be entertaining, if not effective.

The walk is easy, refreshing. It’s uphill, but rather gradually and an easy pace since Kine is terrified of jostling his sisters too much and breaking their virginity or whatever.

At first, he thinks it’s the claustrophobia of the trees. A simple case of being unused to to needled greenery on every side instead of open lands. 

No, the feeling of being watched doesn't subside, but rather grows, becomes heavier the farther they go.

Izaya glances back towards where his family’s guard ride on their horses. All of them still have the same glassy sort of look, the look of relaxation that comes from many hours of a simple mindless activity.

But they’re not incompetent, his father would never allow it. He still sees the harried looks every other month when his father stages his ‘readiness trails.’

The eyes aren’t  _ malevolent,  _ per se. They’re simply watching. And now that he can feel their eyes, he can see how some outlines of trees don’t match. How some parts of the forest are unnaturally still, lacking the natural movement that small animals give it. 

He’s heard the Northmen are supposed to be amazing woodsmen, blending in with nature, moving like silent shadows on even the most treacherous path. 

The same book also said that they gave birth to litters and had them fight to the death to determine who would get to live to adulthood. 

So, you know, a grain of salt. 

But what he  _ does  _ know is that the country is comprised of tribes. How many there are ranges in reports from thousands to two. 

But he does know history. 

And he knows that tribes rarely coexist in harmony forever, even if it might not always escalate to fighting. 

And he knows that kings in their keeps don’t always know their lands like they should, isolated in their stone towers. 

King Shiki Haruya, the Bastard of the North. The Wild King.

Who knows what he knows?

 

“My lord,” one of the underlings says as Shiki thunders into the courtyard, “a caravan sporting red and black colors has been reported twenty miles out.”

“Ooh,” Akabayashi says, swinging down off of his nosorog, “not enough time for a bath, eh? Told you you should have left earlier.”

“Be quiet,” Shiki says, jogging for the keep. 

“At least get under your nails!” Akabayashi calls. “Blood isn’t a good first impression!”

It’s not his  _ nails  _ that are the problem, it’s his  _ hair.  _ Nails you can see and wash and scrub, even in the midst of a battle camp.

His  _ hair  _ on the other hand, has dozens of finicky little braids and pieces that blood  _ always  _ seems to get into, no matter how hard you try and avoid atrial sprays. 

At least he has dark hair.

His rooms feel cold and empty in a way that a tent in the middle of a frozen tundra never managed, even with all the plush and luxury it has. There’s a pervasive chill that will take weeks of constant heating to fully chase away and a faint smell of must that will take longer. The stone walls seem to cling to the chill and never let go, and his hands feel it. It’s hard to work the laces on his armor with his hands half chilled and the knots half frozen. It’s been ages since he’s taken it off and the knots have solidified in a way that would take forever to get out of in the best of conditions and with time he doesn’t have. But he doesn’t dare slice through them like he’s half tempted. 

He’s only half way out of his armor when Akabayashi strolls into his room like he owns the place and not the other way around. “Need some help?”

“No, but I’d  _ like _ some.”

“Fair enough,” Akabayashi says cheerfully, helping Shiki with the knots and laces a little out of reach. Armor clatters to the ground and Shiki starts to feel naked even before he starts shrugging out of his underclothes. He’s gotten used to the weight of armor over the months and months and feels like it’s left an indent where it used to lay. 

Just as Shiki’s peeling off his pants—grateful that they’re black and that he doesn’t have to see the filth that’s no doubt worn itself into the leather—a wave of ice hits him, knocks the air right out of his lungs. The one that dumps from atop his head and has him blinking water out of his eyes isn’t as much as a surprise. 

“Ooh, I think I saw mud trailing out of your hair with that one,” Akabayashi says cheerfully. “Better do that again.”

“Let me at least do it in my bath, for fuck’s sake,” Shiki says. “And clean up the water you got everywhere.”

“Aww,” Akabayashi whines, “but this way is  _ so much faster.” _

Shiki ignores him and Akabayashi heaves a dramatic breath. 

“But don’t you want help getting all the mud out of your hair?” 

Damn. Akabayashi always knows his weak point

“ _ Fine.” _

Shiki scrubs feverishly at his skin while Akabayashi works careful fingers through his hair. Shiki can feel all sorts of things he doesn’t want to think about sliding down his back. “You never did tell me what my darling fiance is like,” Shiki says. “Now would be the time.”

“Didn’t actually see him,” Akabayashi says, and Shiki has to resist the urge to close his eyes and lean back into his hands. No time for that. “Was apparently away at some sort of wedding for a childhood friend of his.”

“Wasn’t your visit planned?”

“Yup. Maybe it was intentional that he wasn’t there, maybe it was happenstance. But I asked around, to see what everyone was saying about the  _ young master. _ ”

“And what were they saying?”

“It’s odd,” Akabayashi says as Shiki grabs for a towel and Akabayashi replaces him in the tub. “They were all saying the same thing.”

“And that was?”

“That he had a massive dick the size of— hey, hey, don’t glare at me like that, I’m sure they were only saying it cause they haven’t seen yours.”

“ _ Akabayashi _ .”

“Fine,  _ fine _ . They all said he was pretty, but that was about all he had going for him.”

“And that’s odd because?”

“Well, you see, people have a tendency to act differently around different people,” Akabayashi says, leisurely scrubbing like they have all the time in the world. “That  _ everyone  _ says the  _ same  _ thing is…odd.”

“Or maybe it’s really true that he’s just got a pretty face with nothing going on behind the eyes.”

Shiki’s under-layer hangs off of him, loose in ways it wasn’t before he left for the battlefield. It’s not the worst thing to happen, the layers and ties will hide most of it. But it’s really not the best showing. 

“Did you get even thinner?” Akabayashi says, shaking the water off like the dog he is. “Keep that up and you’ll be nothing but bones.” 

“Sorry I wasn’t sumptuously feasting on the front lines.”

“You should be,” Akabayashi says, apparently deciding that he’ll be borrowing a pair of Shiki’s pants. “You’re going to poke holes in your betrothed at this rate, and not in the fun—”

“Don’t you have preparations of your own to be getting to?”

“Fine,  _ fine.  _ I’m going.”

 

The castle has walls. 

Big walls, towering walls. Walls that are meant to be walked and patrolled and aren’t just for show. Walls that aren’t for decoration but to repel. 

They left the trees behind a while ago, and it was hard to think that Izaya would miss the trees with their claustrophobic closeness, caging him in. They felt so hostile, missing the broad leaves he was used to and replacing them with unfriendly green needles.

But the rocky crags are worse. The road doesn’t have potholes anymore, but the pebbled ground is uneven and unforgiving in its stead. How he feels oddly exposed, with nowhere to hide. It’s almost enough to drive him back into the carriage, but sometimes he catches snatches of Mairu’s high voice and decides against it.

Besides, it’s best to make a mental map of the castle from the outside.

Castle. Castles are luscious and lavish with sprawling grounds to show power and many “friends” that clog their halls and eat their food.

This is a fortress. It seems to be carved out of the mountain itself, gray stone towers and aqueducts and walls and cannons and a sense of power and purpose that  _ castles  _ don’t.

Izaya’s summoned back in about twenty miles out. 

“Izaya, come back in,” Kyouko calls. “It’s not proper to walk in. Mairu promises to not give anymore sex tips, right, Mairu?”

“Aww, but  _ mom.” _

Izaya swings lightly into the carriage. 

It’s short ride, it’s end marked by the crunch of stone as heavy stone gates swing open, chopped syllables of a guttural language barely audible. 

“Right,” Kyouko says, “remember, despite appearances, he is royalty. Bows are appropriate when first meeting him. He may have an accent, but he most likely does speak Common fluently, so Mairu,  _ no inappropriate comments. _ ”

“We’ll make you proud, darling,” Shirou says, before the carriage door opens and light spills in. 

The Orihara’s are not royalty, they are not announced. 

That’s the point of this whole farce.

Well, part of it.

After the dimness of the carriage, even the light of a cloudy day is harsh, even as the stones of the courtyard seem to suck it in. 

But once his eyes adjust, there is much to see.

The first man that catches his eye has a waterfall of red hair, bright against his bare torso, criss-crossed with jagged black tattoos. Tattooed arms hang leisurely, but meaningfully, close to twin swords at his waist. 

But as interesting as he is, he matches the description Shirou gave of the emissary, down to his foreboding air and a suggestion of a smirk playing around his lips.

The man in front of him is the one he should be focusing on. 

His hair isn’t as brightly colored but is equally as long, small braids twisted into dark hair and flashes of silver suggest beads. His eyes are the color of warm chocolate but his expression and face are cold and sharp, strong cheekbones and a piercing look. Ink peeks out on his cheeks and chin and swirls down his neck, disappearing under the odd-layered Northman style of dress, but reappearing as swirled streaks on his arms.

There’s no doubt in Izaya’s mind that this is the Bastard King of the North.

“Welcome,” he says, and his syllables are lazy and rough, but his eyes are sharp. They linger on Izaya for a moment. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, I’ve heard many great things.” The King’s gaze is not on Shirou, but Kyouko, looking to her for an answer.

A smart man, clearly he does not miss much.

“The pleasure is all ours, of course, your highness,” Kyouko says smoothly.

“Let us not dally. You have traveled far, you must be tired and hungry. We have prepared a meal for you. But first, I’m sure, you must want to, ah, freshen up a bit. We have rooms ready for your use.”

“Thank you,” Kyouko says, “your kindness is appreciated.”

“It is nothing much.” 

The King says something in the native tongue and a small group of servants step forward. Izaya’s read books, but reading and hearing are different and the syllables seem to slide in one ear and straight out the other. But it’s no matter. He’ll have plenty of time to practice. “Please follow them, they will lead you to your quarters. I look forward to seeing you at dinner.”

And with that, the King turns sharply on his heel and walks swiftly back into the castle proper, no fanfare. The man with red hair casts one more long, lazy look before following at what seems like a sedate pace, but manages to keep up easily.

“Well,” Shirou says brightly. “He seems nice.”

 

They fall out of the carriage, tumbling over each other. 

One after another. 

It’s amazing that such a small carriage managed to fit five people, even ones as small and skinny as these.

First pops out a man, one with a swagger in his step and a twinkle in his eye and a wink for Akabayashi.

Ah, that must be Orihara Shirou then. 

He helps out a gorgeous woman with all the regal bearing of a queen, with long, dark hair and ruby eyes and delicate features. 

Orihara Kyouko. 

Then out tumble two girls, alike but unlike. One crawls out like a puppy finally released from her cage, finally free and eager to roam, energy vibrating off of her in waves. The other is more cautious, wary. Quiet. But both of them have quick eyes with sharp gleams and he gets the impression that it would be foolish to let either of them alone unattended in his castle. He makes a note to have someone to look after them. They may soon be family, but family only has the meaning one gives it. 

They must be the twins, Orihara Kururi and Mairu. With any luck, one of them will be married to his youngest brother one day. 

And that simply leaves the fifth Orihara. The one that will never leave.

Orihara Izaya steps lightly down from his carriage, eyes bright and curious as they take in his surroundings, settling first on Akabayashi and then on Shiki.

He looks like his mother, red eyes set in delicate features and a small frame. He moves with a smooth sort of grace, the sort that speaks of easy control of his own body. The kind that creates great warriors, if they choose to hone it. He suspects Izaya has not, he’s far too thin to have serious muscle mass. He looks a bit like a doll, fragile and pale. 

Those rumors were at least partly true then.

Partly. 

He’s not sure there’s nothing between the ears. His expression is carefully one of wonderment, but his eyes.

His eyes are far too sharp. 

And that might make everything all the worse for him. 

“Welcome,” Shiki says, and he knows his tutor would have winced, but he really hasn’t had an occasion to speak Common in many months. The words feel clumsy and awkward, even though he knows they’re technically right. 

He can feel Akabayashi’s malevolent delight behind him, barely contained.

Fantastic. 

The mother is the clear matriarch, just from the way she holds herself, so he addresses her. Her accent is clear and easy and she follows the script to a near T. He suspects it’s heavy in her upbringing, rather than any particular kindness to him.

They’re barely out of earshot when Akabayashi starts in. “So, what you think about your future bride? Not gonna have a hard time taking that one to bed, huh?”

“ _ Akabayashi _ .”

“What, they can’t hear us.” Shiki doesn’t have to turn to know that Akabayashi probably has his pinky in his ear, a habit that’s meant to be charming but is really just disgusting. “Besides, they can’t speak our language anyway.”

“You don’t know that,” Shiki says, because it’s never good practice to assume such things, even though he suspects it to be true. 

Akabayashi snorts. “Oh, sure, I’m sure there’s  _ tons  _ of teachers. Because so many of us leave for the uncivilized south.”

“Do you think I should get a teacher for Izaya?”

“No,” Akabayashi says sharply. “What’s the advantage to it? Already trying to butter up your sweetheart?”

“It hardly seems fair to expect someone to live in a land and not speak the language. Very—”

“Isolating,” Akabayashi finishes. 

“Yes.”

“If you’re asking for my official counsel,” Akabayashi says, tone dry, “then there’s two routes. He’s still an unknown entity. Watching to see how he learns, how fast, if he  _ bothers  _ to learn, would be a excellent diagnostic tool. However, providing him a teacher would be an excellent sign of good faith and would be able to measure how fast he progresses in a measurable way. There’s only one problem with that.”

“What’s that?”

“You and I are probably the only two in the kingdom that  _ can  _ teach him. And, I dunno about you, but I’m busy.”

“We can’t possibly be the  _ only  _ two that speak Common,” Shiki says, casting his mind back. “My tutor for one. We have substantial trade, for another. And besides, it’s usually part of the curriculum, isn’t it?”

“Your old tutor? The seventy-year old that taught you back when you were twelve? Oh, sure, I’m sure we could pull him up with a nice seance, I’m sure he’d be thrilled to be pulled back from death to help you get laid. ”

“Doesn’t mean there’s no teachers.”

“The ones that speak any Common are the Vrag, you know that. The other tribes don’t bother to include Common in their curriculum.”

Yes, he does. He was willfully forgetting it, like he tries to do with anything regarding them. 

“Fantastic, so we isolate him and see how invested he is by how social he chooses to become. Assuming that he doesn’t throw himself out a window in the meantime.”

“Of course he won’t,” Akabayashi says. “The windows here are hardly large enough for that.” Akabayashi pauses. “Actually, they might be big enough for him.”

“We lose access to his purse if he kills himself in anguish. It’s in our best interest to keep him happy.”

“Sure, but teaching him our language is not. It’s really best to keep your walking wallet in the dark.”

That, at least, may be true. 

“And if you’re asking as your  _ friend—” _

“Spare me, please.”

“—you better not. Dirty talk is much easier when they have no fucking clue what you’re saying.”

“I’m not listening to you.”

 

“They have plumbing!” Mairu yells from the bathroom. Whatever she says next is lost under the sound of running water.

“Oh, good,” Izaya says, throwing himself on the bed. His mother cleasr her throat, but doesn't actually scold him. “I’ll at least be able to drown myself if I want escape from my marriage, ne?”

“Or you could come visit,” Kyouko says. “It’s marriage, not a prison sentence.”

“It might as well be,” Izaya says, throwing an arm over his eyes. “This place is like a prison.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Shirou says, “I don’t remember this many luscious furs or massive fireplaces in prison. Or do you mean it’s made of stone and has a wall? In which case, it’s very much like a prison. Just like most buildings are, as a matter of fact.”

“Why can’t you just let me wallow in my misery?”

“Because you chose this,” Kyouko says. “And get your shoes off my bed. If you want to get dirt all over yours, it’s next door.”

“Rather insistently, if I recall,” Shirou adds. “Had to be this one. The Bastard of the North. But you know, if you really don’t want to—”

“He wants to,” Kyouko says. “He’s just being dramatic as we haven’t given him enough attention today.”

“I’ll give you attention!” Mairu calls, coming out of the bathroom, running and taking a flying leap to land half on top of Izaya. “So, tell me. What you think of that hunk of man meat in the courtyard? I think you made an  _ excellent  _ choice in coming up here.”

“You know what? I think I’ve changed my mind,” Izaya says, trying to free himself. “I think I need a moment to collect myself and take in the day’s events, it’s been a rather trying day, after all.”

“You should introduce him to Shibari,” Mairu continues. “It’s the culture of our homeland.”

“Sharing,” Kururi says.

“Wow, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Shirou says, wandering to the bathroom.

“This is all too much for my delicate virgin ears,” Izaya says, and Kyouko coughs loudly. “I will see you all at dinner.”

And with that, Izaya escapes to his own room. 

It’s not the most lusciously decorated place he’s ever been, if he’s honest. There are no wild tapestries adorning every wall, lush carpets don’t cover every inch of the floor. But it has its own charm, in an understated sort of way. The walls are a cream sort of color that manage to convey cleanliness and soothe at the same time. And there are decorations, they’re just. Subtle. Little carvings on the bed posts, on the walls. 

The bed is soft, the blankets plush.

No, a life here won’t be uncomfortable. 

They even have plumbing. It’s a bit of a far cry from the rumors that he heard that they shit in the streets. It’s probably for the best, he’s heard it can be cold in the winter and the last thing he wants to do is go outside for his  _ necessities.  _

What’s odd is the windows.

Sure, the room  _ has  _ them. But they’re so  _ small.  _ Enough to get a glance out, to tell that the sun is up, but not large enough to enjoy it or anything. And they don’t open, the glass appears to be built into the stone. 

Izaya flicks his nails against the glass idly while he thinks. Maybe it’s intentional. But while the doors did have locks, they all locked from the  _ inside.  _ Unlikely it’s meant to trap. Maybe the locks to keep people in are more subtle? Perhaps, but unlikely.

Maybe it’s simply an architecture thing, the winters here are meant to be cold enough to freeze marrow, perhaps the limited glass is to retain heat?

Ah, not enough data. 

It’s frustrating. 

Nothing he can do but watch and wait and pretend he’s not watching. 

And freshen up for dinner like the pretty little chit he’s supposed to be, an image he’s cultivated so carefully and for so long it’d be a shame to have it all down the drain in a moment of carelessness.

And he’s glad he does because dinner is  _ interesting. _

It’s a damn good thing he’s not a vegetarian, for one.

There’s hardly anything he would recognize as a vegetable in sight, but there are some tufts of green leaves here and there. Some odd-looking berries in some of the bowls.

“It all looks delicious,” Kyouko says, “thank you, your highness.”

And it does, really, but it’s mostly meat. There appears to be some sort of grain lurking at the edge of the table, but it’s hidden behind seven types of bird. Which, honestly, pales in comparison to the roast  _ something  _ dominating the center. 

“I will pass your compliments onto the kitchen,” the King says. “And we are about to be family. Please, call me Shiki.” He gestures to his right, where his bodyguard is apparently allowed to sit. Not that there aren’t enough seats, since Shiki isn’t exactly holding a court. “And this is my, ah, advisor, Akabayashi.” 

Akabayashi smirks at this for some reason, a quick here-and-gone thing. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Akabayashi’s accent is rougher than Shiki’s, but he’s still understandable.

“The pleasure is all ours,” Kyouko says. “This is my husband, Shirou, and our children: Mairu, Kururi, and Izaya.”

Shiki bows his head slightly. “Pardon my rudeness, but I find it hard to shake the habit. Here, we do not have the habit of calling others by their given names unless we are very close.”

“How interesting!” Kyouko says brightly. “Please, feel free to call us Orihara.”

There’s five of them. How long will it take to become confusing, exactly? 

“Please call me Izaya,” Izaya says, making sure to meet Shiki’s eyes. “We are about to be married, after all, I think that makes us close, ne?”

“This is true,” Shiki acknowledges. “I look forward to spending the time before the wedding getting to know you.”

“Oh, fantastic!” Izaya puts on his best empty smile, the bright one. “When is it, anyway?”

“Eight days from now,” Akabayashi says. “On the celebration of Higoya. It is a very auspicious day. Good luck for weddings.”

“Plenty of time to get to know each other!”

“Ah, of course,” Shiki says. “Perhaps I can show you around tomorrow, if you are, ah, agreeable?”

There’s a question in the word that Izaya doesn't think is entirely asking permission. “That would be great! I’d love to see all the artwork you have around here!” 

Shiki doesn’t look uncomfortable like Izaya expected. Instead, he just nods once. “Of course.”

Huh. So maybe they do have some hiding around here, just not fit for the guest rooms. 

Maybe they aren’t so uncivilized after all.

Then Izaya looks down.

Oh. 

He gingerly picks up his mini-pitchfork, trying to look like he has an idea what he’s doing. He looks to Akabayashi to see what he’s doing, but Akabayashi catches him looking and pointedly puts his down so it clatters against his plate. 

Well.

Shiki appears to be holding it like a pencil, and that seems to work fine, but it feels all together too heavy and awkward in his hand and the pieces are too big too—

So that’s what the knife is for.

Perhaps this land is just as barbaric as he was lead to believe. 

 

It’s indisputable that his mattress is softer than the ground. By all rights, his room should be far more conducive to sleep than a dingy tent in the middle of a battlefield.

It’s not.

He pushes out of bed, not bothering to light one of the many candles in the room. Maybe he’ll take a soak in his bathtub. A long, proper one that will actually help him feel clean. 

He’s opening the door to the hall instead, only to find Akabayashi standing on the other side, bottle of something in one hand and the other stretched to open the door.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Akabayashi says, leaning against the doorframe. “Come here often?”

Shiki snorts and turns back into his room. “Security around here is awful, if any ass can just access my room in the dead of the night.”

He can hear the door click behind him, but not Akabayashi’s feet as he comes closer. “I hardly think I’m any ass,” Akabayashi says, resting his chin on Shiki’s shoulder as arms come around his waist. “I’m your favorite ass.”

“Oh?”

“You dare to doubt me? See if I share any of my booze with you.”

“Oh, terribly sorry. You’re the best ass. I dream of your ass, I bow down in worship when I have the chance to pay homage to its greatness.”

“Is that right?” Akabayashi says, hands traveling distinctly southward from his waist. “Is that the only part of me you like?”

“Of course not,” Shiki says, making a grab for the abandoned bottle on the table, “I’m also a fan of your booze.”

“I come all this way,” Akabayashi whines, “to comfort my lover in his time of stress, only to be ignored in favor of booze.”

“I thought the booze was for my comfort,” Shiki says, working the cork out with a knife. “Or did you bring it over to get me drunk, so you can have your wicked way? Take advantage of me in my moments of vulnerability?”

“To take advantage,” Akabayashi says bluntly. “But if you wanna drink and bitch I'm down for that too.”

“How kind and thoughtful of you.” Shiki finally manages to pry the cork out with a wet pop.

“I know.”

“Did you think to bring any cups?”

“Nah, didn't get that far in my seduction plan.”

Shiki shrugs and takes a deep swig. It's the good stuff, slides down his throat with a pleasant burn but doesn't set it on fire and leave him spluttering. 

“Wow, so stressed you’re drinking straight from the bottle, never thought I’d see the day.”

“It’s booze. Kills the germs, right?”

Akabayashi snags the bottle. “Yeah. Sure. That’s how that works.” Akabayashi’s other hand comes up, tangling in Shiki’s hair, tugging his head back. Akabayashi’s lips are always hungry, and his kisses always have a hint of teeth, and it’s always amazing. “Now it won’t matter whose spit gets where.”

“Very clever of you.”

“I know.”

Shiki collapses on his bed. It’s softer now than in was a few minutes ago, he’s certain. The mattress wiggles as Akabayashi settles himself on the other side, propping himself up amongst the pillows. 

“Don’t think I’ve seen you this shaken in a while. Can’t believe the human version of a toothpick could shake you after killing men on a battlefield.”

Shiki accepts the bottle again and silently takes a swig.

“Oh boy. You’re not having  _ doubts  _ are you? Are you getting cold feet on me?”

“It’s not  _ that _ —”

“Oh my god. This is it. He meets the boy and decides he can’t stick his dick in it for the sake of the country. The Sword in All Stones decides for the first time in his life that he can’t fuck the guy.”

“Maybe I don’t want to fuck someone that’s getting married because his parents forced him into it.”

Akabayashi makes a noise of understanding. “I see. So, you’ve figured out that what you thought of as a dick with a wallet attached is  _ actually _ a human with thoughts and feelings that you’ll be living with for as long as you both shall live, probably even fuck once or twice, and you’re starting to have doubts.”

“Not  _ doubts, _ ” Shiki says, rubbing at his forehead. “But,  _ reservations. _ ”

“Well, let’s see.” Akabayashi ticks off a finger. “For one, you don’t actually have to fuck him. It’s not actually in the marriage contract, and I know you know that there’s an entire wing of rooms just waiting to be occupied. You don’t actually even have to see him if he chooses to fuck off back to his parent’s house.”

“He’s gotta be here the winter, at least.”

“Then get to know him, if you want.”

Shiki sighs and it feels like it comes from somewhere far deeper than his chest. “It’s all so easy, but—”

“It’s not easy,” Akabayashi corrects, pulling Shiki in to lay on his chest like he’s a nothing more than a rag doll. “And your father loved your mother and hated his wife and you don’t want the same ‘cause we are all doomed to be our parents and shit.” Akabayashi takes a long pull from the bottle before handing it back over. “You gotta do it though. There’s no two ways about that.”

“Yeah,” Shiki says, taking a long, long swallow. “I know.”

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank yu, for looking it over. and naming things. and basically making this whole thing happen.

 

 

He usually eats breakfast alone.

That’s a lie. He never eats breakfast if he’s left alone. If he’s eating, it’s because Akabayashi’s there to smash something against his mouth until he gives in or because he actually got some form of sleep and rolled out of bed late enough that his meal might be called lunch.

But court manners require that he has some sort of spread, usually to be served at an hour after sunup, where he will greet his guests and pretend he's not a bear playing at human. Decency asks that he even be fully dressed for the occasion and not throw on whatever’s on the floor and further pretend that he doesn’t intend to collapse face first into the soft bed he really just began to appreciate about an hour ago.

He thinks for a moment about sending an elbow or a foot into Akabayashi’s ribs like Akabayashi’s done to him a thousand and one times.

But Akabayashi’s not _technically_ required to attend, he supposes. Sure, he’s Shiki’s head advisor, _technically,_ but officially, he’s head of the knights, and that’s far too lowly to be considered appropriate for _breakfast._

And then there’s the fact that Akabayashi is harder to deal with in the mornings than a drunk badger armed with knives and can be twice as prickly.

Best let him sleep.

Bastard.

His casual clothes are even larger on him than his formal clothes, but there’s no other option unless he wants to clank down in his armor or stroll about naked. Besides, he rather doubts the Oriharas have any idea how Northern clothes are supposed to fit.

He’s in the dining room before any of the Oriharas arrive. Not a terrible surprise, given that the sun only fully rose five minutes ago. There’s a maid setting dishes out, and the politics are clear even in breakfast. He is offered no respite from their thousand and one intricacies.

Most of the staff are of the Polevy tribe, not out of favoritism, but just because they’re the closest and even then, they’re a couple hours ride away. To employ further out would simply be troublesome.

That they do most of their trade with the Polevy tribe _is_ favoritism.

There’s eggs. Not surprising, the Polevy raises chickens. But there’s no fish, relations with the Berejny must be poor. There’s no bread, because trade with the South has slowed due to war, fewer caravans to make the venture, but there is porridge, courtesy of the Polevy. There’s berries, lots of berries, from the forest, if he’s not mistaken. Relations with the Granichny must have improved since he reached out to make peace to let the Oriharas through.

“Lord Shiki,” the maid says when she notices him. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Mikaya,” he says. “How have you been holding up?”

“Oh, fine, just fine. My daughter had her third child, so it’s been quite lively around the house lately.”

“Oh, congratulations. Boy or girl?”

“Boy, he’s got quite the pair of lungs. He’ll be a fine warrior one day,” she says, the unconditional regard only a grandmother could have shining clear.

“I’m sure he is, he’s of your blood, after all.”

“Oh _stop,_ ” Mikaya says, but looks pleased. “You’re making an old lady blush.”

“Hardly old, you’re in the prime of your life.”

Mikaya clucks her tongue. “Tell me that when you get to be my age and your back creaks when you get out of bed each morning.”

“I look forward to having that much wisdom. I can only hope I look as youthful as you.”

Mikaya laughs again, wagging her finger. “That’s all your father right there, your mother was never as much of flirt. Why, your half-brother—” All of a sudden Mikaya’s face goes dark, lips pinching. “Never mind what he did. When are you coming to visit? It’s been a while. Aoba misses you, you know.”

He doubts it. The last time he saw Aoba he was barely waddling, only just starting to take unsteady steeps. He’s been rather busy since.

“I was hoping to go sometime before the wedding, bring my fiance.”

“Oh, the boy? He’s very pretty. You’re a lucky man, Haruya.”

“You’ve seen Izaya?” the name sticks in his throat. First names always feel too intimate, even if it’s a necessity with foreigners to distinguish them apart.

“Oh, sure. He was wandering around the halls last night, seems he got a bit lost. Or I assume so, by the look on his face, poor child.”

Something about that seems…off. “Oh? And where did you find him?”

“Just wandering around near the library. I took him back to his rooms. Said he was after some water? I think, at least. My Common is near non-existent, I’m sure you know.”

The library? That’s clear on the other side of the keep proper from where the guest rooms are. It’d take skill to get that lost, considering there’s only really one correct path from the guest rooms to the library.

“I see.”

“Oh, Haruya, don’t _scow_ l so, you’ll get wrinkles. I’ve heard that the Southern houses have no running water! Can you imagine? So uncivilized. He probably really was simply lost, poor thing. Sometimes people are simply what they say they are, constant doubt will do nothing but worry you into an early grave.”

Shiki thinks it’s rather the opposite, but says instead, “I’ll try.”

Mikaya pats his cheek like she did when he was young and she knew everything there was to know. “You were always too serious, even before you were old enough for pants, scowling at your toys like they did you wrong. Maybe this frivolous little boy will be good for you, finally get your mind off things.”

Mikaya bustles off, leaving him alone in a room that feels too big, in clothes that don’t fit, to do a duty he wasn’t raised for.

 

The first rule of being a pretty idiot is to always go the extra mile.

Just because it’s breakfast doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be turned out like you’re about to step onto a stage to perform. You are, after all, simply to a smaller and more discerning audience.

Then there’s a decision to be made: to be the first or to be the last. Being first allows you to arrange yourself, to put on the best show. But being last allows for a grander entrance, to shock and dazzle and awe all present.

Unfortunately, the largest part of his audience is his family, and only his father is consistently dazzled anymore. And being fashionably late is only fun when it’s not insulting the ruling monarch. When you hope to get on their good side.

Early is best.

Make it seem like he’s eager to please, like a lapdog. Something small and stupid and harmless, struggling with all its might to get a reassuring pat from its master. 

It’s not hard to find his way from the guest rooms to the dining room, for all the keep is built like a labyrinth, interlaced with narrow passages and sharp turns. It’s almost fun, really, and he suspects some of the walls hide passages, but that’s an adventure for another day.

Night.

Whenever.

It’s so odd to walk through halls and have them be so _empty._

His family home bustles when they’re in residence. Maids to-ing and fro-ing, his sisters running up the halls, butlers gathering this and that. The nobles they visit have similar levels of bustling activity. Households take effort to run. Floors need to be mopped, fires need to be set, food needs to be cooked, the latest indiscretion needs to be cleaned up double-quick.

And then more than that. The noble castle is the center of the providence. Even if the castle _doesn’t_ serve as the bureaucratic headquarters for tax collectors and scribes, they’re still represented as bustling figures double-checking laws and decrease and getting permission and verifying records and carrying scrolls and fetching more paper.

To say nothing of the palace of the kings he’s seen.

Nobles might have a province, or a fief, or whatever title they’ve bestowed on their plot of land, but kings rule them all. And the bustle is greater, larger, more important. Couriers and traders and scholars and tax collectors and diplomats and representatives and advisors and generals and soldiers and the servants to keep the place clean and the people fed and the horses shod and the swords sharp and the bread baked.

And that _doesn’t_ include the highly ranked bureaucrats and the nobles there to simper and grovel at the feet of the king. And _their_ servants bustling about because no one could possibly wipe their ass as well as that one maid from home.

But here his footsteps ring out in a way he’s not familiar with and it makes him feel oddly vulnerable and naked. It’s the stone. It’s the lack of tapestries. It’s the emptiness of the halls.

For all he knows, it really is just his family and the king here. And that red-headed asshole. Bodyguard? Counselor? More? Too early to say.

Ah, not that he’s discounting the servants, of course. Only a fool would, but there aren’t many of those, either.

Curious, curious.

The doors to the dining hall are exactly where he thinks they should be, which is promising, considering the twisting nature of the hallways.

What’s in the dining room is not.

It’s not even close to being time for breakfast. Not even the earliest risers should be wandering in yet.

But the king stands in the room, staring at the table so intently that Izaya’s sure he’s not really seeing it, but turns to look as Izaya comes into the room.

One of Shiki’s eyebrows shoots up, but he wrangles it back down into submission in record time.

“Good morning!” Izaya says as sunnily and cheerily as he can, despite suddenly not knowing where to put his body. Is he supposed to approach the king? Is he supposed to sit? No, surely not. Sitting while the king stands is a big enough no-no that it goes from impishly playful to outright disrespectful.

Might as well approach, ne? They are supposed to be getting married.

“Good morning,” Shiki says as he comes closer. “I trust you slept well?”

“Of course,” Izaya says, and it’s not a lie. He did sleep very well, for the time he was in bed. “My room is very comfortable, thank you.”

“That is good to hear. But I did not expect you to be up this early.”

“Oh, I’ve always been somewhat of an early riser.”

“I heard you were roaming about the castle. I thought you might have had trouble sleeping?” Shiki has a small smile, barely noticeable, hanging around the corners of his lips.

Izaya puts on his best sheepish smile. “Oh, you see, I was just after some—”

But thankfully Izaya doesn’t have to decide what he was after in the middle of the night and risk ire. If he was hungry— was the food not good enough? Thirsty— can’t work a faucet?

Unfortunately, it’s the red-headed hulk strolling in. Apparently the shirtlessness is chronic condition he lives with, because he’s still half-naked and doesn’t seem at all bothered by it.

What was his name? Akabayashi. Akabayashi’s eyes scan the room in a way that Izaya recognizes from watching the guards around important people. Not the way Izaya’s eyes would move, he’s clocking Shiki and Izaya and how close they are to each other and their body language and the atmosphere and coming to a conclusion. And all of it between one step and another.

Akabayashi’s body language is loose as he saunters into the room, lone eye gleaming. He says something in Ledarian, voice rough and tone sing-song.

Shiki says something back, and his words are so much smoother than when he speaks Ledarian, tumbling effortlessly out without any hesitation or awkwardness.

It’s hard to grasp Shiki’s tone, it’s subtle enough to be lost among the jungle of strange syllables, but Izaya thinks it’s hidden reproach with a touch of amusement. Maybe. It’s something in his eyes.

But whatever command of Shiki’s attention Izaya had, he’s lost. Shiki’s gaze follows Akabayashi instead as he collapses in a chair, sprawling this way and that, taking up far too much room.

Akabayashi’s voice rumbles again as he reaches for some of the apples already decorating the table, but Shiki’s voice cuts through his, sharp as a knife, and stops his hand cold.

 

“ _Fuck decorum,_ ” Akabayashi says, hand falling to the table. “ _What’s the fucking point of having food out if you can’t eat it?_ ”

“ _You didn’t have to come down for breakfast_ ,” Shiki reminds him. “ _You could still be in bed, not making my life difficult_.”

“ _And leave you alone to fend off your fiance? It would be remiss of me._ ” Akabayashi casts his eyes over Shiki’s shoulder, and a smirk unfurls across his face. “ _Speaking off, he’s looking a little neglected. I think he’s wilting without constant attention_.”

Shiki turns to look over his shoulder, where Orihara’s still standing. His eyes are darting between Shiki and Akabayashi, a mild look of curiosity and wonderment. He seems a bit awkward, arms hanging limply at his sides. But not terribly awkward, his fingers are still where they peak out of the edges of his bell sleeves, easy to see against the black material of his clothes.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Shiki says, switching to Common with the same kind of rusty scrape a dirty sword makes being pulled out of a scabbard. “Where are my manners? Would you like to sit?”

“Oh,” Orihara says, blinking. “I. I—”

Something clunks into place in Shiki’s mind. Decorum. Kings. Sitting. The order in which it _has_ to be done.

The Southern cultures are strict and tedious about even common things, and Akabayashi throwing himself into a chair has _meaning_. It’s been so long since he’s had to observe court manners, that he’s been outside of a battlefield, that it completely slipped his mind that something as trivial as a butt meeting a chair could have so much meaning.

Akabayashi pretty much declared his place in Shiki’s life by throwing his ass where he saw fit.

“We are friends here,” Shiki says, even though it’s not technically true and he can feel Akabayashi smirking at him.

“Still, I—”

Shiki pulls out a chair. “I insist. It would be wrong for us to have such barriers between us.”

“Ah,” Orihara says, settling delicately into the chair Shiki’s provided. “I didn’t know if you’d be amiable, but I’m glad to see that you’re interested in getting to know one another.”

Orihara is wringing his fingers together in his lap, an exaggerated motion that skips over his rings and that Shiki doesn’t believe for a moment. “Of course. We are to spend the rest of our lives together are we not?”

Akabayashi’s grin widens as one starts to bloom on Izaya’s lips. Truthfully, Shiki had rather assumed he’d be using the ‘rest of their lives’ portion to know anything he needed to know. And he planned to be rather busy and rely on decorum to see him through.

Damn Akabayashi.

“In that case,” Izaya says, meeting Shiki’s eyes. His are wide and large and free of guile and cunning. On the surface. Orihara’s eyes are deep and look as he might, Shiki can’t see to the bottom. “I was wondering if you might want to play a game of chess? I’m afraid I’m not much competition, but I can hold my own.”

“ _Why admit you’re not good at something when inviting someone to play?”_ Akabayashi mutters, chomping on a apple since Shiki was distracted for the five seconds it took him to get his grubby mits around it.

“We don’t have a chess set,” Shiki says, leaving off the ‘anymore.’ Which isn’t exactly true. He thinks the shattered pieces might still be laying around in a box in his mother’s old rooms. Because jade is jade no matter how shattered it is. “We play tak.”

Orihara frowns slightly, barely noticeable if you’re not looking for it. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar. Is it hard?”

“ _Everything is hard when you’re stupid.”_

“It is easy to pick up.”

“Will you teach me, then?”

“Of course. It has been a while since I have had an opponent.”

Izaya smiles beatifically at him, and Shiki tries to smile back. He doesn’t think he does it right.

Akabayashi clears his throat. “ _Not to get in the way of the worst flirting I’ve ever seen, but I think we rather ought to be discussing actual state matters today, don’t you think?”_

“Ah, excuse me,” Shiki says to Izaya. “My advisor reminds me that I have some urgent business to attend to after breakfast. Would you mind perhaps waiting until another day?”

“Of course,” Orihara says with a sweet, but clearly insincere smile. “But, I hope your majesty still can find time to show me around your residence. I’d hate to trouble your household again simply getting lost.” The smile is embarrassed this time, eyes ever so slightly downcast. But the look isn’t quite complete without a delicate blush. Perhaps he’s not good enough of an actor to blush on command.

Hell’s bells. He did say he would, didn’t he?

“I will come for you when state business has finished.”

“Of course. Thank you, your majesty.”

“Please, call me Shiki.”

Izaya worries his unnecessarily large sleeve between his fingers.

“I was actually wondering if I may call you Haruya.”

Akabayashi pauses eating his bread, but covers for it by stuffing the entire roll into his mouth.

Orihara grows concerned the longer the silence stretches. “Is. Is that not your name? Pardon me, I was lead to believe—”

“No, that is my name,” Shiki reassures him. “It’s simply that. In this culture, first names are a sign of intimacy.”

“Oh,” Orihara says. “But are we not getting married? I’ve been lead to believe that marriage, that is some, some aspects, are um,” —there’s the delicate blush --“are rather intimate.”

Oh. Hell. “Usually permission is given, not asked for,” Shiki says, trying to figure out a polite way to say ‘absolutely the hell not’ while making it sound like he’s not saying no. Politics are hard.

“We can trade,” Orihara says. “You can call me Izaya.”

Akabayashi can’t seem to decide between outrage and amusement. Which gives Shiki the strength to say: “You may call me Haruya, in private, if you wish.”

Izaya beams and none of it seems fake and Shiki wonders what he got himself into.

 

The problem with having a standing arrangement with the king to come find _you_ is that you have to be, well, accessable. And for an indeterminate amount of time.

He could, of course, chance walking the palace, such that it is, but it wouldn’t look fantastic to be roaming about right before a tour he insisted on having. And then there’s the chance he’d be discovered somewhere he’s not supposed to be, and the king’s suspicions shoot even higher. But there was no real way to know that Shiki would find out about his night wanderings so fast, but it does confirm Izaya’s suspicions that they’re being watched. It would make sense, it’s not exactly like the North and South are on the very best of terms.

But it does mean that Izaya’s stuck in his rooms for the foreseeable future.

He looks sadly again at the ‘window.’ He’s not large, but even that would require a significant weight loss to have _any_ hope of squeezing through. He has books, but he’s read them all, and carefully selected those that would raise no suspicious should they be found.

Besides, he had to make room for all his _clothes._ He probably has enough now to last him till the day he dies—assuming he doesn’t gain a single ounce. The cuts so slim they’re practically scandalous, even by Southern court’s standards. But Kyouko had insisted and Izaya didn’t mind. He rather suspects that she would have bought him lingerie, if at all appropriate. She might have still, just squirreled away in her own bags to make a damning reappearance on his wedding night.

But having so many clothes is a blessing really. Nobody really questions if the trunks are perhaps not quite the right weight, instead distracted by the sheer volume.

A few discreet touches to one and a drawer with many glass vials tinkers out.

Izaya drums his fingers on the lacquered edge. What had felt like many when he left suddenly feels like a small supply for the rest of his life. There’s no two ways about it, he’ll have to either try and grow plants here and hope that no one notices the prince consort-queen-monarch has a menagerie of poisons, or he’ll have to try and learn the local botany. Both are suspicious in their own rights and require _work._

But for now he carefully selects a vial of Young Love. Applied minimally, topically, it increases heart rate and pupil dilation. The symptoms of the first blushes of love.

Ingested, it stops the heart dead in its tracks.

But Shiki shouldn’t have the need to suck on his sleeve, and will hardly notice if it brushes his fingertips.

But all of his preparations barely take any time at all.

He tries not to, really.

It’s dangerous, especially since he doesn’t know when the king might call.

But he’s so damn _bored._

The false bottom of the trunk pops out and he pulls out the letters he snagged last night from some room near the library and his Ledarian to Common dictionary. He’s pretty sure they’re not important, they were tucked away in some drawer after all. And it’s best to practice reading with actual samples. But revealing to Shiki he was poking around is perhaps not the best way to build the trust he needs for any of this to work.

Sighing, Izaya grits his teeth and sets about deciphering Ledarian’s unfamiliar alphabet.

 

Shiki’s ‘war room’ is vaguely dusty with disuse, but disturbed enough that the maids obviously came in and had no idea where to start. It’s a relic of king that didn’t fight, but it’s the only room with the maps they need.

Akabayashi flicks one of the newer ones for the regaine they want, the one the previous king had _requested_ each tribe make of their lands, but it’s not a bad choice.

“Okay,” Shiki says, gathering little markers in his hand. “The front lines are here.”

Akabayashi scoots his pieces several inches over to the left. “More here.”

“That’s ridiculous. There’s the river juncture where we made camp.”

“Sure, but here are the mountains northeast of it. And there sure as hell isn’t a creek running through the center of our battlefield.”

“If it was there we would have been riding for hours longer than we had, it was only about fifteen kilometers before we broke the tree line, that would have us at forty-five.”

“Well, in that case, the front line is actually over _here,”_ Akabayashi says, pushing the figures all the way to the brink of the keep. “Because nothing on this damn map is to scale.”

“Of course it’s to scale. It’s a map, that’s the _point_ of maps.”

“Then how do you explain the forest of Klin being only ten kilometers wide?”

Shiki rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, but that doesn’t make the headache go away. “What do you think the odds are this is a bad map?”

“About a hundred percent. It would have been Zarenchy, they were pointedly neutral during your father’s reign.”

“So they wouldn’t give him a good map out of friendship and don’t want to give him a good one in case he invades.”

Akabayashi grunts.

The headache intensifies.

“Fine. But that doesn’t change that the dragons are here,” Shiki says, jabbing a spot that’s about ten inches behind enemy lines. That’s where the Zubny mountains are, large, sheer points of rock that no humans dare to conquer for many reasons, being home to dragons rather far down the list. On paper, it’s easy, making the base assumption that the map is grounded even a little in reality. In actuality, it’s at least several days hard ride to even reach the base of the imposing mountains the dragons call home, and then perhaps several days straight up, if one was even able to climb that way.

“There has to be an easier way to get in contact,” Akabayashi says, resting a hip on the table. “They serve lords in the south, and we sure as fuck don’t have mercenaries traversing our borders every time some lord plants his ass before another. Maybe the Oriharas know?”

“Maybe,” Shiki says, then remembers the mischievous glitter in Shirou’s eye and Kyouko’s sly air that screamed she knew more than she was letting on. “Actually, I’d put good money on it. But it’s far too early to be discussing money matters, they’ve only just arrived. We’re still pretending that it’s because our families like each other and they’re not whoring their son out for prestige.”

“Actually, if anyone’s the whore, it’s you, considering that you’re getting the money and all,” Akabayashi steamrolls on before Shiki can get a word in, “but I’ll ask Shirou. I think you might find them to be a far more practical people than you expect.”

Shirou, huh?

Shiki gives him a flat look. “You slept with them.”

Akabayashi’s grin is wolfish and unapologetic. “Anything to get you the best terms, my dear. Don’t let _anyone_ tell you I’m a bad pimp.”

“Oh? And how well did that work?”

“Kyouko whipped me over the bargaining table almost as hard as she did in bed,” Akabayashi cheerfully reports. “If your fiance has half of his parent’s skills, you’ll be running this kingdom over unified tribes in no time flat.”

“Great, fantastic. I’ll leave negotiating with the dragons to you. As much as it pains me to admit it, you might be the best choice, seems you have experience.”

Shiki turns to take in the stacks and stacks of maps he has of his kingdom, the only way past kings knew their land. Akabayashi sees him looking. “We should burn them. The only use most of them have is the paper they’re printed on, look at this.” Akabayashi shakes one out at random. “This one had a magic gift-giving tree labeled on it.”

“No, keep them for now. They might come to be useful.”

Akabayashi snorts, but dutifully rolls the paper back up.

“And now on to business.”

Akabayashi pulls a packet of letters out from god knows where.

“We have a problem.”

Shiki’s blood runs cold.

“What do you mean?”

“The second package of missives went missing.”

 

The king does come to collect him eventually, mere moments before Izaya was about to try his luck at flinging himself out the small window.

There’s a polite knock at the door and Izaya has a half second to arrange himself artfully on his bed. It’d have been easier with more pillows, but beggars can’t be choosers, and besides. It gives him something stupid to complain about if he should appear too intelligent for a moment.

“Come in,” Izaya chirps.

The door swings open, and the king stands in the door. He glances at Izaya on the bed and then quickly away. “Ah, apologies. I did thought I heard you say come in.”

“I did,” Izaya says, slithering off the bed once it becomes clear that Shiki will not be looking that way again. “I was just taking a rest. Something about traveling just saps your energy for _days_ , ne?” he says, suspecting that Shiki was off fighting the war he’s here to finance mere days, if that, before his family arrived.

“Yes. It can be quite tiring. You have come a long way. If you would like to wait for another day before—”

“No, no,” Izaya says, realizing that cutting Shiki off wasn’t the best move he could have made only after he does it. But Shiki doesn’t seem to mind. “This is to be my new home. I would love to meet it as soon as possible.”

A shadow passes over Shiki’s eyebrows for a brief moment as they scrunch together, but it only lasts a second. “Yes, of course. Then let’s start. Meeting it.”

They walk down the hall. Shiki every once in a while takes half steps to be slightly in front of Izaya, but seems to catch himself and fall in step instead. “These are the guest quarters, of course. I’m sure you’re very familiar. Every room can be outfitted to sleep twenty, if necessary, but the winter has not been so hard that all the staff must stay here at once.”

“The staff leave?” Izaya says, trying to aim for mildly surprised, but not _offensively_ surprised.

“Of course. We are maybe a day’s ride from the central, ah, _hub_ of the tribe that our staff are a part of. When the winter promises to be harsh, some choose to move their families here instead of braving the winters to see them.”

“Ah. And how often do they get to see their families?”

“Three days a week, as the gods dictate.”

As the gods dictate? Would asking about the gods show too much? Would not asking show too much?

But he misses his chance.

“This is the dining hall, I’m sure you’re familiar with it,” Shiki says drily. “In the winter, the tapestries will be put up to keep the air warm. But for now it is not necessary.”

“You make tapestries?”

“Not personally. But it’s a common craft, yes.”

“Do they usually have patterns and such?”

Shiki shoots him a look with an eyebrow raised high. “Of course. Otherwise we might as well simply shore the walls with blankets.”

Shiki stops in between two doors. One Izaya vaguely recognizes as the one he entered the keep through, and another with ornate carvings. At first he thought they were merely decorative, but the closer he looks, the more he realizes that they seem to spell out some sort of story. But Shiki doesn’t give him that long to look.

“This is the throne room,” Shiki says, pushing open the door. There’s one ornate throne at the end, sitting on a raised dais. “Theoretically, complaints are heard here.”

“Only theoretically?”

“Yes.”

“How come?” Izaya asks as the door closes.

Shiki spreads his arms wide. “The petitioners do not come. It is not a friendly place. There is no town.”

“Isn’t that better? The castle isn’t placed particularly close to one tribe, and the flat land around leaves space for a town to grow. Or barring that, a convoy to set tents. Several in fact.”

Shiki’s staring at him with something close to appraisal. “Or a fair!” Izaya says with a bright grin. Shiki’s still looking at him. “During the winter! I’d be great, bring people together.”

Izaya was under the impression that the winters here were cold enough to kill after a few moments, but Shiki hasn’t quite lost the thoughtful, assessing look.

“Yes,” Shiki agrees slowly. “It might be.” Shiki closes his eyes, and Izaya gets the impression of shaking himself. “But I won’t bore you with politics.”

Shiki sweeps on, and pushes through a small, unimportant-looking door.

It opens onto the grandest part of the castle Izaya’s seen. Rich tapestries adorn the walls showing fierce warriors conquering savage monsters, the colors so vivid Izaya swears he could reach out and his hand would come away bloody. Carvings peek out from behind them, intricate enough Izaya almost sees them move out of the corner of his eye, with flecks of silver here and there. Peering closer, the metal reweaves itself into molded weapons, each one crafted for its owner.

In fact, the hall has _many_ weapons. The tapestries are all suspended by spears, their points obviously not just for show. Swords hang on the walls like they too have a claim to arthood.

“My quarters are down in this area,” Shiki says. “Yours will be too.”

“These are lovely,” Izaya says, and he doesn’t even have to fake the breathless quality when he inspects the tapestries.

“My mother wove them. She would be gratified to hear you say so.”

“I’d be thrilled to tell her,” Izaya says, deciding to take a risk. Worst case, it covers up for his slip earlier.

Shiki is silent a moment. “She is no longer with us.”

“My deepest sympathies,” Izaya says, inclining his head to show the deepness of his sorrow.

Shiki accepts it with a nod of his own, but says no more.

“Did you inherit any of her skill?” Izaya asks, like he wasn’t paying attention before. Making others repeat themselves lowers their opinion almost one hundred percent of the time.

“I’m afraid not. I’m much better at carving. Though Akabayashi has some skill at it, I’m sure he’d be willing to teach you, if you’re interested.”

Shiki doesn’t seem interested in dallying, instead sweeping Izaya on with a hand on his back back out into the corridor.

“And of course, the library.”

Shiki pushes on a door that seems too small and plain for the room it conceals within.

For one, it has some of the largest windows he’s seen in the castle, complete with vaulted ceilings and murals to decorate them. To compensate for this luxury, massive fireplaces couch around the perimeter, currently smoldering even though there’s no real need for them yet.

And though there are many shelves, books compete for space, jammed together so tightly it’s amazing they haven’t yet popped out of their places. It’s a treasure trove of information, untouched, if the layer of dust is any indication.

Izaya tries to school his features into something that’s not jaw-dropped wonder, but he suspects he’s already too late by the way Shiki radiates a sort of satisfied amusement.

“The windows are beautiful,” Izaya tries weakly.

“Indeed. They’re reinforced with some of the ore we mine, makes them harder to cool. But it doesn’t mean it doesn’t get cold in the winter.”

Izaya wanders in slowly, Shiki trailing behind like an indolent parent.

“I didn’t expect such a…. _luxury_ in the keep,” Izaya says, trying to make it clear that ‘luxury’ is code for ‘intelligent.’

“It’s a relic of king’s past. Largely the books in here are transcriptions of oral histories and folk culture and the like.”

Izaya swallows. The king himself didn’t need to be attractive at all with a library like this.

But that’s not why he’s here. Izaya makes sure the light from the window frames him perfectly before making an exaggerated gesture to bring his hand to his mouth, brushing Shiki’s fingertips with his sleeves.

He can see the king’s pupils dilate, but he makes no other reaction. Not to slide his eyes over Izaya’s body. Not to lick his lips. Not to flush.

Nothing.

Perhaps he’s immune?

No, it’s a Southern plant. Where would he have gained immunity? Perhaps he really is as stone cold as the rumors say.

“If you’ll excuse me,” the king says instead, “I have other business to attend.” And he walks straight out like Izaya was just an arduous task to be completed.

They’ll see about that.

 

Shiki leaves Orihara pretending not to drool in the library, returning to his war room just next door.

“He should be occupied for the next few hours.”

“You sure?” Akabayashi says, even though he’s already striding out the door. “Didn’t seem much of a reader to me.”

“You just want to believe he’s stupid. That’s unlike you, to ignore what’s there in favor of your own prejudice.”

Akabayashi shrugs. “It’s a strong prejudice.”

Shiki pushes hard on one of the stones, and the wall swings smoothly.

“Is using the secret corridor really necessary?” Akabayashi grumbles, but follows obediently.

“You want to explain to the Oriharas why you and I are entering his unoccupied bedchamber?”

“Fine, fine.”

The tunnels are hard to navigate if you don’t know where you’re going. But Shiki’s been scurrying through since he was small and the passages seemed cavernous instead of claustrophobic.

The other danger is finding the latch. Shiki’s fingers skitter the walls, but Akabayashi leans against his back, reaching over his shoulder to press it with his unnerving precision. Akabayashi is warm, very warm, even without clothes. Shiki’s heart thumps heavier, even though Akabayashi has been so much closer so many times before. The door almost can’t open fast enough.

Orihara Izaya’s room is much like it was when came and fetched him, full of clothes and barely unpacked.

“Are you _sure_ he took them?” Akabayashi says doubtfully, poking at one of Orihara’s overcoats like it might bite. But Akabayashi has always been suspicious of clothes. He looks at Shiki and pauses. “You doin’ allright there, Shiki?”

“He was near the war room last night,” Shiki says, trying to root through the clothes chests as delicately as he can and not face Akabayashi and put his damn face on display. He’s been close to Akabayashi before, damn it, he shouldn’t be blushing. “We better _hope_ it was him. It’d be disastrous if it wasn’t.”

“Unless he’s a Southern spy.”

“I thought you didn’t think much of him?”

A single shoulder rolls up. “Can’t ever be too careful.”

But Orihara was on the bed, wasn’t he? Shiki climbs up searching the blankets and pillow carefully.

Akabayashi whistles. “Are you really sure right _now—”_

“He was on the bed when I came in,” Shiki snaps.

“Risque.”

“He doesn’t know.”

“I dunno. Beds are intimate in every culture.”

Shiki snorts, and goes to climb off the bed, but Akabayashi’s there, leering over him, and his pulse continues to thrum fast and steady, but it always does that when Akabayashi looms. “You look a little _flushed,_ Shiki. Library got you all hot and bothered?”

“I—”

“Or is it the thought of being in your fiance’s room knowing he could come in any minute?”

It would be a lie to say it wasn’t.

“We don’t have time for—”

“There’s always time for,” Akabayashi mimics, leaning further in until he’s braced on the bed.

“We don’t have the supplies for,” Shiki says drily.

“What, no quickie hand jobs? You’re no fun,” Akabayashi whines, but pulls away and begins searching again, with perhaps a bit more angry energy than he had before.

Shiki’s poking around under the bed when Akabayashi makes a noise of success. “I found something, sneaky bastard.”

One of the lacquered chests has a secret drawer, which contained—

“‘A Ledarian to Common dictionary.’”

“He’s using it to translate them,” Akabayashi says, flipping through. “Though I’m not sure how far he’d get with this piece of shit. Don’t even know the name of the damn language.”

“Or he’s trying to learn the language of his new home.”

“Then why’s it in a secret compartment? Seems pretty suspicious to me.”

“Doesn’t seem very secret to me, considering how easily you found it.”

“But that means he doesn’t have them,” Akabayashi says darkly.

“Unless they’re on his person.”

“Are you willing to take that chance?”

“No,” Shiki rubs his eyes, but it doesn’t make the location of the missing missives clearer. “Fuck. We’re going to have to move fast, we can’t afford this to get out. You see if anyone has left the keep today.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Make sure no one gets out.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

The books aren’t very organized.

Common is interspersed with Ledarian, crammed in wherever they may fit, with no apparent rhyme or reason. And whatever they’re written on, it’s not paper. It’s something slicker and thicker and probably more resistant to the elements, if Izaya had any guess.

Actually, there’s a small corner where the beginnings of organization can be witnessed, a small corner of order in the vast chaos of the library, but it’s obvious whoever started had their will broken not far into the process, there’s pile of books littered on a nearby desk that he thinks could potentially have their place on a nearby shelf.

It’s a boon and a curse, he thinks. No one will notice the books on herblore gone missing. But then again, he has to _find_ them first, and honestly, he’s not sure his life is long enough.

So, he wanders, hand brushing the spines, fingertips and sleeves trailing. Most of the book spines feel uniform under his fingertips, smoothish leather, not the variability of different kinds of cloth. The titles are engraved, meant to last, and the foreign alphabet gives an interesting texture under his finger tips.

It’s when he feels _familiar_ letters under his fingers that he stops.

It’s the same leather as the rest of the books, but the engraving is different, a bit uneven compared to the printing-press neatness of the other books.

‘ _Nagorny to Common: A Practical Guide._ ’

Nagorny? Never heard of it. And he damn well should have, considering the extreme _dedication_ of his tutors. Perhaps it’s a dialect of some sort.

But it’s the only book he’s been able to find with a title he can comprehend and hasn’t read a thousand and one times, so he tucks it under his arm and continues his wandering. It’s a large library. One could get lost, if they had such an inclination.

He doesn’t find any other books, but he also ceases to look terribly hard, opting instead to get the lay of the library, feel the atmosphere.

Look for secret passageways.

He doesn’t find any, not that that makes him any less certain that they exist, but he does find chairs.

They feel out of place in the austere Ledarian fortress, plump and soft, perfect for curling up in. He tries to imagine Shiki folding his angles into something resembling relaxation and comes up short, though not for lack of trying. Shiki’s so rigid and full of sharp angles he can’t imagine him sitting in anything other than perfect straight-backed posture. Ah, he’ll have to change that. See if he can get Shiki into something resembling relaxation. For the sake of their marriage, of course. Would slipping something into his tea count as cheating? Do they even _have_ tea here, he hasn’t seen any.

Damn these barbarian nations and their lack of proper creature comforts. Are they even _allowed_ to have chairs as comfortable as these? Does that violate some religious tenets?

But there they are and they’re soft and comfortable when Izaya gently lowers into it.

He’s made a terrible mistake.

Usually, his clothes would stretch to fit any position he may take. Usually, his clothes are utilitarian and beautiful in equal measure, with hidden pockets, made to do whatever he will.

These clothes are not.

These clothes are stiff and meant to be taken off and have nothing incriminating tumble out when they hit the floor. These clothes are meant to flatter and entice and they’re tight, and they pull tighter and uncomfortable as soon as he sits.

Tian’a damn it.

He better have Shiki nice and seduced and under his thumb by the time Autumn rolls around, he can’t fathom wearing these types of clothes everyday for much longer. He feels naked without a knife nestled securely in his sleeve and restless unable to climb the wall of this damn fortress.

Instead, he settles in for the more austere chairs closer to the windows, where some tables crouch. These are more of what he expected. Like the chairs in the dining room, they don’t encourage any sort of relaxation.

Izaya pulls out his find, flipping through idly before stopping and turning to the first page.

It’s handwritten.

The ink is smudged in some places, but it’s clear a lot of care went into its inking, and the lines are smooth and crisp.

It’s a blessing.

Whatever Nagorny is, it shares an alphabet with Ledarian, and each letter is carefully printed with the sound it makes above it, care taken to detail tongue positions.

There are sections on verbs, common conjugations, basic sentence structures, each with the Common translation written underneath.

It’s a gold mine.

There’s an entire list of nouns, organized by their meaning in Common and—

Oh.

_Ledarian (Imperial name. Known locally as ‘Nagorny’)_

No wonder he hasn’t made any progress using his stupid dictionary. They don’t even know the name of the damn language.

But more concerning, _he_ hasn’t heard the name of the language.

How much else of what he’s heard is false, considering the basics are wrong?

This might be a harder game to play than he thought.

He pulls the bundle of letters from deep inside his sleeve. He’s not supposed to keep anything in these. It’s a miracle Shiki didn’t notice the odd outline against his arm, but he really didn’t have much choice if he wanted to be on the bed when Shiki came in.

He wants to say they’re historical accounts from some war. Not accounts. Communications. His dictionary hasn’t gotten him far, and he’s rather been hampered by his complete unfamiliarity with the language and alphabet and the sloppy handwriting.

 _May (like the month?) Crops ???? Destruction (tense???)_ is written across one sheet of paper and is all he had to show for an hour of trying to induce a headache and give himself fine lines around the eyes.

A hand lands on his shoulder gently and it’s only a childhood of that very same experience that prevents him from leaping out of his skin.

“Mama.”

“I rather hoped you’d still be in the king’s company,” she says, settling into the chair beside him.

“He seemed rather busy.”

“Hopefully not _too_ busy.” Kyouko inspects her nails. They are, of course, flawless. “Summer won’t last much longer, I hope to start sending merchants across the border before the first frost.”

“Careful, we don’t want to seem impertinent.”

“I don’t think anyone is laboring under the impression that this is anything other than a business transaction,” Kyouko notes wryly. “Their culture is not like ours. They’re far more… _pragmatic._ It’s refreshing, after all the pretense and nonsense from court.”

She says it like it’s not her true calling. Like she doesn’t run the whole affair from the shadows.

“I think he disappeared into the study near the entrance, then, if you’re so eager to make sure you can milk all you can from this. If you’re so sure that the marriage will go through.”

“Well, he didn’t cry when he saw you and you’ve survived two meals together,” she says. “I have high hopes for this marriage, I’ve seen worse starts.” Kyouko’s eyes turn a little playful, “and no doubts he’ll be able to find it in himself to bed you, if that’s your concern.”

“ _Mom.”_

“Oh, please,” she says. “I saw the way you were looking at him at breakfast. Be more careful at dinner, your clothes were expensive and drool is hard to get out of fabric.”

There’s no use hiding from Kyouko. She’s the one that taught him all his tricks: the blush and glance away, to fiddle with his sleeve, hiding his mouth and letting his eyes do the talking. So he doesn’t.

And she studies him in return. “Izaya,” she says, cupping his chin in one hand, “we of course, don’t want you to be unhappy. It’s not too late for you to change your mind if—”

“No, I want this,” he says, shaking his head free.

“You wanted a king of another land,” Kyouko says drily. “An adventure. I’m not sure you wanted _this._ ”

“This is better than I could have hoped for.”

Kyouko simply looks amused. She leans in and whispers in his ear, “just because the people aren’t fond of their king doesn’t mean they want another foreigner on the throne.”

Kyouko leans back and combs her fingers through his hair. “My little flower, what am I to do with you?”

“Listening to court gossip, were you?”

“You were _my_ little flower long before you were theirs,” she says. “But I’ll leave you to your…what is it you’re doing?”

“Studying.”

“Ah, of course. I’ll leave you to your espionage.”

 

He’s been here a long time.

Long before Shiki took the throne, long before his brother before him. Back when Shiki was still a scrawny little thing, scowling at the world and brawling in the courtyard over perceived insults and getting the last apple.

He wasn’t here _always,_ not like the little tot that’s scampering between the legs of busy cooks, getting in the way of things but receiving pats on the head all the same. He grew up somewhere else. In a tribe that no longer exists.

But he has a new one, sort of. He can see it in the smiles of the staff as he asks oh-so-casually, “what’s new since I’ve been gone?”

Nothing new, not really. Some babies have been born, some of the elderly have died. It’s life, and it trundles on, waiting for no man or beast. Some things have been scarce, recently, but they’ve been relatively untouched by the war and by the Gods, it’s how things should be. War and home have no business mixing.

At least, that’s what Tradition and Common Knowledge preach.

He knows better.

But even though they’ve taken him under their wing, it’s not his tribe unconditionally.

Should the winter be too long or the crops too barren, he’ll be one of the first to go.

They won’t crowd around him, support him if he should need it. He’s conditional on the favor of their King, their Golden Boy. One of their own, defender of their lands, willing to flay the enemies of their tribe should it become necessary.

But there’s not a soul in the fortress that doesn’t know whose bed he shares and whose ear he has.

No. That’s not it. He’s being paranoid. This whole damn business is making him paranoid.

Or maybe he’s being _just_ paranoid enough. Someone’s got to be, with Shiki busy planning world domination. He’s smart, but he doesn’t _know_ what it is to be truly other in a group, and the stupid rumors that swirl. He forgets that people are dumb sometimes, and don’t act in their best interest always and that not everyone can lock away emotion like he can.

He forgets that he needs to be _charming_ as well as _smart._

Akabayashi is charming.

So they say to him: “Aka- _chan_ , you’re looking too thin! Here, have an apple,” as they regale him with the latest gossip and rumors.

“Is there anyone I’m missing?” Akabayashi says as he bites into his apple. It’s not the best, kind of mealy and dry.

“What do you mean?”

“Anyone off shift?”

“You’re so _paranoid,_ ” one of the newer cooks says. She means it coyly, and was likely to follow it up with _“you could relax with me,”_ but one of the others sends an elbow into her side.

“The safety of my king is important to me,” he says mildly, but then smiles to soften it. “‘Sides, I’d like to know who else I can grill to get more on the Kidaya story when they get back. Mooning after Hafuya, you say?”

“Well, Akihiya just left,” one of the girls says as she skillfully chops vegetables, not even looking at her hands.

“Akihiya?”

“He’s new.”

Akabayashi frowns.

“Oh, come on now, I’ve practically raised him,” Mikaya says, flopping a wrinkled and gnarled hand dismissively, “he’s trustworthy.”

“All the same,” Akabayashi says, pushing away from the counter, “send him to see me when he gets back, would ya?”

There’s conversation behind him when he leaves the kitchens. There would have been a time when he would stand and listen, because the best stories come out when skilled hands and idle minds have privacy, but he doesn’t have time.

Besides, it’s probably just the cooks explaining to the new girl his All Seeing Eye. Not that those rumors aren’t worth collecting and cultivating.

He’s personally a fan of the idea he can see through clothes. He can’t, that would be stupid, but he likes it when the maids wear something silly under their shift. It’s fun as hell to call them out, tease them stupid. Not that he would sleep with them. He doesn’t think Shiki would mind, but it does kind of cheapen his place in Shiki’s bed.

And he really can’t afford that.

But he doesn’t stop the rumors, only because some of them are useful. He’s particularly fond of the one that claims he can see the true intention in the hearts of men.

Is it true?

Perhaps.

It doesn’t matter. It makes a convenient excuse to poke around the personnel.

If it had been before the incursion into their borders, before they had to ride out to crack the heads of an army that thought their land was for the taking, he would have known who was supposed to be here and who wasn’t.

But it’s been many cycles and he’s had other things on his mind, like protecting Shiki. He’s worse than a toddler, honestly, constantly wandering into trouble, seemingly almost _trying_ to get himself killed.

Asshole hasn’t even been on the front lines before.

It’s a damn good thing that Shiki projects an air of being untouchable and regal, that he’s everything a king should be: wild, dignified, cool-headed, a warrior.

Tattoo’d.

The curls of ink on Shiki’s neck is perhaps all that allowed Shiki’s head to remain attached to his shoulders when they arrived at the camp, a sure sign that he’s not just another Imperial pretender. The gods would never allow their blessings to be bestowed on someone like that.

But now the rumors are spreading.

It’s true: the new king is One of Us. He’s embracing the Old Ways, the Traditional Ways. He’s not another Imperial Invader.

He doesn’t think Shiki realizes how damn risky it was for him to strike a deal with an Imperial Invader for a marriage. Shiki’s _secure_ in the knowledge that he’s Ledarian, one of the People. Maybe that’s what makes it okay. Maybe his unshakeable confidence is his saving grace.

Fuck it. All these dumb politics are going to make him go grey. That’s the price of restoring a kingdom, maybe. But really, they’ll be lucky to get out of this mess down only one glorious head of hair.

The air outside is perhaps a touch cooler than it should be for the season, but not cold enough to assume that winter will come early. Though it will, this year. By the time Shiki realizes he wants to have a traditional fucking wedding with his Imperial, there will be snow on the ground.

This, his eye _can_ see.

And even with _no_ eyes, he could tell Krapivka’s _not_ happy with him, stomping her hooves and making irritated huffs and trying to take a huge chomp out of his shoulder.

“I know we just got here,” he says soothingly. “But isn’t the only damn reason you’re alive, your only _purpose,_ to carry me?”

Krapivka isn’t impressed with his argument, but doesn’t try and break his spine when he jumps and throws his leg over. She even steps gently out of courtyard, like she knows stealth is of the essence.

They have an _understanding._

And besides, it shouldn’t be hard. The nosrogs the staff use to to and fro are things close to death’s door, and limp more than gallop.

The terrain separating the keep to the Glavnaya village isn’t rough terrain by any means. Not really. It can be a little treacherous sometimes, but not if you’ve got a solitary brain cell and at least one functioning eye. And it’s not actually that far, just feels that way in the winter.

And when you’re bored.

And gods above, this road is boring.

Scenery he’s seen a thousand times. No real risk of an attack. He would sleep if he didn’t need to be at least somewhat aware, lest Krapivka knock him off and fucking murder him.

Oh, hell.

It only takes a gentle nudge and Krapivka changes gears into a trot, a deceptively land-eating pace. He shouldn’t need to go this hard, if the rider was anything approaching intelligent, he’d be going standard pace so he didn’t stand out.

On the other hand, he’s currently the sole possessor of the biggest scandal since Ren’s Atrocity.

Akabayashi nudges Krapivka to go just the slightest bit faster.

When the rider comes into view, long before anyone else would see him, Akabayashi’s worst fears are confirmed. 

He’s a solitary rider, and he’s riding _hard._ This isn’t one of the fat, old nosrogs the staff usually use. This one is young and spry, and should damn well be used in the war effort.

It’s not a good sign.

It’s a fucking goddamn horrible sign.

Even the village simpleton would know better than to push an animal at that pace in anything but a fucking emergency. The only reason Krapivka hasn’t dropped dead is because she’s used to hauling ass _with_ armor and the occasional irate king draped over her pommel on battlegrounds. There’s a path, _sure,_ but it’s nothing close to being a _road_ and any stumbling would catapult any rider into a rightful snapped neck.

It’s something important.

And his stupid eye can see a goddamn lot, but it can’t see if this idiot’s got the letters or if he’s just hurrying on home to screw his partner.

But either way, he has a choice, and he has to make it soon.

He lets the rider go any further, and the chance he’s seen by some farmer tending whatever the fuck animal increases by an uncomfortable factor.

But separating the Glavnaya’s pastures and the forest area is a ravine, treacherous enough that the Glavnayas don’t push their ever-expanding borders past it.

And if he’s got the letters, he won’t stop.

And it’s a damn convenient place to put the body.

And there’s no other place that they could be.

It’s a chance he’s willing to take.

He’s only got one eye, and by all rights that should have put his sniping days long behind him.

It’s done anything but.

The arrow leaves the bow with a twang, and Akabayashi knows before it hits home that it will.

The rider falls off the nosrog with a limp grace that he’s become familiar with over months on the battlefield.

He’s not getting back up. The nosrog is sniffling around the body, confused and anxious, stomping its feet.

If it was trained, it’d return back to where it came from. Losing a man is a fact of life. Losing a man and an animal is a tragedy.

He starts with the packs. The body ain’t going anywhere, but can never tell when the animal might startle.

An apple. Some water.

But of course, it would be on his person. Some people aren’t _fucking idiots_ and don’t leave _incriminating evidence_ lying around.

But, in his defense, he didn’t think taking them to the warfront to be discovered was a stellar idea either.

He checks once.

He checks again.

He’s elevated by the feeling of crinkling paper tucked up near his heart, but it’s too damn small and it’s too damn thin.

It’s a note from his _whatever_ waxing damn poetic about their child.

Fuck.

Oh, Shiki’s going to _kill_ him.

 

He will never be able to understand how they did it.

Making war from a tiny, secluded room. How are you supposed to give orders from this far away? Should you even, the tide of battle can change so quickly even simply _being_ there is no guarantee that you can keep up?

Maybe you could leave that to the generals. But that’s just handing off responsibility. And besides, _his_ generals only want to save their own tribe, they have no interest in treating the other tribes as anything other than meat shields and cannon fodder. If they bother to consider them at all.

Perhaps that’s the reason his father’s family was so hated.

Well, one of many reasons.

They would really sit here, in their fortress of stone, while others would die in their name not knowing the man behind it. He understands it’s not uncommon practice in the Southernmost lands, that some are even soldiers by profession in a way different than his knights. It’s not a hard concept to wrap his mind around. He knows some of his people make livings by selling their swords further South.

But regardless, he feels _useless_ away from the battle field. There’s an intrinsic need to know _what’s happening,_ how the lines have moved and how his troops are doing. Is the line closer or farther away? Will he come back to a scene of absolute carnage?

Not that he should be worrying. Aozaki is older than him, after all. Far more experience. One of few knights to survive the purge after he took the throne.

It’ll be fine.

What he _should_ be doing is his duty and go play nice with the Oriharas while they’re here.

Except, apparently, they’re several steps ahead of him.

Orihara Kyouko pushes open the door to his war room, gliding in like she has every right to be there.

“Orihara,” Shiki says, and even though it’s appropriate address between them, it still feels wanting. “Orihara-sama.”

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” she says, waving a delicate hand. “We’re family after all.”

“Of course, forgive me.”

“And like family,” she says, pulling a long, slender pipe out of one of her sleeves as she folds herself into one of the chairs. “I hope to discuss business with you.”

Ah.

“I see.”

“Do you mind if I smoke?” she says.

Shiki hesitates before he remembers that what they tend to smoke _there_ is not what they smoke _here._ Akabayashi has some of this ‘tobacco.’ It’s perhaps why it was so easy to convince him to make the trek south.

“It’s no issue.”

It’s a damn good thing too, because there’s already there’s an odd sweet-bitter smell flooding the room. But it is not unpleasant.

“You’re a busy man, so I’ll cut to the chase. I hope to have trading caravans across the border before the snow starts,” Orihara Kyouko say, holding the end of the pipe between perfect white teeth.

She’s not even going to let the ink dry on their marriage papers before starting in on their deal.

It’s smart. Send a small caravan this year. Use the winter to prepare a larger one based on the results.

“I don’t see why you couldn’t,” Shiki says. “The frost is a ways off yet.”

Kyouko nods, like this is the answer she expected. “I came to ask about getting maps for my traders. There aren’t many in Hizashi, of course. Perhaps a few with areas of high populations or skilled craftsman. I understand there are no cities here?”

He doesn’t know if this is a part of the marriage contract, if she sold her son for this information. Because this is precious information indeed.

This is the information that could wound them in an invasion. This is the information that tribes do not want to put on maps to their king, because he could use it against them.

“I will see what I can have done for you.”

Orihara Kyouko nods again takes a pull from her pipe, exhaling slowly. “And I have another favor to ask you, family to family. Or perhaps, mother to son-in-law.”

Shiki’s eyebrow shoots up and that’s apparently all the prompting she needs.

“You and I know that this is a trade. That there could be any two bodies in this marriage, it doesn’t matter. It’s the nature of an arranged marriage.”

Shiki straightens, suddenly feeling ill at ease.

“But Izaya…” Orihara Kyouko trails off. “I’m not quite sure _he_ understands that.”

Ah. The young heir was sold off without his consent.

It starts to make sense now, why her son seemed so eager to make nice with him, not treating him with any cold reservation. Perhaps the reality of being sold for prestige and business hasn’t quite settled. Perhaps he’s desperately hoping to make a love match out of one of the coldest sales in history.

“I will, of course, be treating your son with nothing but the greatest amount of respect.”

“I have no doubt that you will. But I ask that you also be _gentle_ with him.” Kyouko looks thoughtful, twisting her lips. “You, of course, would not know his reputation at court. He is known to be something of a flirt, but he never seems able to follow through. This will be his first— and last—relationship.” Kyouko shakes her head. “He is a simple boy, Shiki. Maybe it’s just a silly mother’s foible, but. Please try and treat him gently.”

Shiki thinks about what she’s asking him long after she leaves.

Treat him _gently._

It’s not like he was going to ambush him in the halls and rut against him until there were bruises on his thighs like Akabayashi likes to do to him when the mood strikes.

Is she asking for a proper courtship? He doubts it. That would be asking for too much for a marriage of convenience.

Likely it’s just a mother’s conscience coming back to bite her after she decides to sell her son for influence and trade.

It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

But he doesn’t have another option either.

Well, at least he and Orihara Izaya have that much in common.

 

He’s making no progress.

Not that the dictionary hasn’t _helped,_ but it’s not exactly like the packets are picture books, and he has to skim the entire damn thing to find the word he’s looking for, because while having them arranged in _Common_ might make sense in some situations, it’s completely useless in this one.

He tucks the letters back into his sleeve, cursing the lack of pockets to keep it secure. But it’s fine. It’s not like Shiki will be swooping out of the shadows of the hallways to take him against the stones.

He had spent an _ungodly_ amount of time making sure he was picture perfect in case Shiki did decide to come and see him slaving away in the library. It wouldn’t _quite_ gel with the image he’s going for, but he did find a trashy romance novel in Common that he could pretend to be so utterly engrossed in.

But despite the largely unchanging sun, he makes his way swiftly to his rooms. That’s perhaps another reason why there are no damn windows in this place, the sun barely sets. The only indication he has that it might be time to take a break are the growing cricks and pains in his neck and the strain in his eyes.

Perhaps it’s because he’s not quite entirely paying attention to where he’s going.

But it’s not.

One moment, the corridor is empty, just him and the echoing stone, and the next he’s careening into a warm mass of muscle, perhaps slightly less solid than the stones.

“Sorry,” Izaya says with a sheepish-sunny grin, “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

It’s Shiki’s hulking shadow-bodyguard-person and it only strengthens Izaya’s suspicion that he popped through a secret passage.

“Oh, you don’t speak Common, do you?” Izaya says, tone still chipper and apologetic, “does that mean I have to pantomime a shame play, make sure you know my deep sorrow? Are you important enough for that?”

“Where did you get those?”

“Get wha—oh.”

Akabayashi hasn’t been looking at him. Akabayashi’s lone eye is singularly clocked on the packet he’d desperately trying to translate in the library.

“You speak Common?”

Akabayashi bends cautiously down to pick up the packet, and his bulk make his delicate crouch look ridiculous and his lone eye sparks with anger and suspicion and he keeps it fixed on Izaya.

He opens the missives delicately, peeling off Izaya’s translations with two fingers, and a cruel smirk spreads across his face but dies just as quickly as it came.

“Why do you have these?” Akabayashi’s Common is rough, vowels stretched improperly and warped and all wrong. But he’s understandable

“They were just lying arou—”

“ _Bullshit.”_

Akabayashi’s hand around his arm is _bruising._

He lets himself be dragged into the wall, stumbling behind Akabayashi in the dark. It’s tight, but not so tight that his shoulders bang the sides. But the pace and the uncertain footing makes him stumble, the only thing keeping him up Akabayashi’s rock solid grip.

Izaya’s thrown into a room he recognizes as his own. If he pretends to stumble a bit more than necessary to get a better look at the door Akabayashi’s closing, well. That’s his business.

He should know about any fun secret entrances to his room.

Akabayashi’s a hulking, dangerous mass. “I should kill you,” he growls.

“What for? I didn’t even understand—”

“That much is obvious,” Akabayashi growls, holding up the paper Izaya was working from. “It’s the only damn reason you’re not dead.”

“I didn’t know it was so important,” Izaya says, worrying the edge of his traitorous sleeves in his fingers.

Akabayashi gives him a long, hard look. “I believe that you didn’t know jack shit. What I _don’t_ believe is that you weren’t _looking_ for it.”

“Wouldn’t it be silly to try and play spy when I don’t even know the language?”

“Yeah. ’S dumb as fuck.” Akabayashi uses a huge hand to rub at his face. “I’m not gonna tell Shiki.”

“Erm, thank you?” Izaya says, trying to hide his relief behind confusion.

“It’s a punishable offense, treason. It’s the death sentence and Shiki ain’t shy about using it,” Akabayashi says bluntly. “And I honest to gods don’t think you know shit about what these say.”

Akabayashi’s lone eye _burns._ “But now you know they’re important.”

Izaya has a choice. He could continue on trying to convince Akabayashi he’s as dumb as rocks.

Risky. Akabayashi clearly doesn’t believe him.

Or, he could show his hand and have a chance of actually coming out alive.

“But you need this marriage,” Izaya says. “You _need_ my money. Where as I, well. Marrying into royalty is just a bonus.” He smiles, but it’s thin and cold. “You need me.”

Akabayashi stiffens, but his arm stops swinging casually near his sword.

“Doesn’t mean I trust you.”

“You don’t have to.” Izaya puts on his most winsome smile. He learned it from his mother, it’s edged with poison and ill will and malice. “But as your future monarch you must respect me and follow my orders. What a conundrum for you.”

Akabayashi grunts. “I follow the king. Your orders are secondary.”

“We’ll see. We’ll see.”

Akabayashi shakes his head. “My duty is to the king. If that requires killing you then, well.” His smile is unkind. “You won’t see it coming.”

 

Akabayashi doesn’t come find him before dinner.

It makes something uneasy settle in his gut, even though Akabayashi has definitely come out alive through worse bullshit.

But he turns himself out carefully for dinner, puts on his best mask, and makes his way to the dining hall.

The Orihara clan is all accounted for—no. The twins are rambunctious enough to look like three, but there are only two in actuality.

“—but then _I_ said—”

“Hush, Mairu,” Kyouko says, and one of the two settles and calms.

“I’m just saying—”

“Hush.”

Kyouko swings a look at Shiki, “is Izaya not with you?”

She says, and it sounds accusatory, like he should have gone and proposed his undying love to Izaya the moment she left his office and spent the rest of the day alternating between writing poetry about his eyelashes and making tender love to him on a bed of furs.

“I’m afraid I’ve had to attend to matters of state and left him to his own devices,” Shiki says drily. “Has he been missing long?”

“She just really wanted you to— _oof.”_

“Mairu,” Kyouko says. “ _Manners.”_

Mairu swallows. “Yes, mother.”

Ah, so perhaps he was expected to go seduce Izaya this afternoon.

“I hope you found things to occupy your time?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Kyouko says, answering for all of them. “There’s always embroidery work to be done, books to read. It’s so nice to be away from the hustle and bustle of it all.”

“Ah, that’s—”

And that’s when Izaya and Akabayashi decide to make their entrance.

It looks almost companionable. Izaya appears to be waxing on about something, while Akabayashi gives him his undivided attention. A sudden friendship struck.

Except for the way Akabayashi’s holding his right arm suspiciously close to his dagger, watching Izaya’s every movement for an excuse to pull it out. His mouth is tugged into a grin, but anyone that knows Akabayashi knows that that’s never a good sign.

“—and that’s why you should never wear silk to dinner.” Izaya looks around like he just noticed everyone. “Oh, are we late? Sorry, time does fly! I hope you weren’t waiting too long.”

“Not long at all,” Shiki says as he pulls out his seat. He watches as Kyouko casually extends an arm to keep Shirou from plopping down before Akabayashi takes a seat. It’s only noticeable because Shirou sends a pout her way for the briefest of seconds. “I see you’ve run into Akabayashi.”

“Yes,” Izaya says. “It was very kind of you to offer his teaching services, I’m sure I’ll be speaking Nagorny in no time.”

Shiki glances at Akabayashi, but his face is impassive. “I hope it helps you feel more at home in the coming months.”

Izaya shoots him a dazzling smile. “I feel at home already.”

Kyouko is giving him an approving nod over her meat.

And Shiki sits through the longest meal in his life, hoping the end brings answers.

 

Akabayashi trails Shiki like a shadow up to his room, throwing the lock as soon as the door closes.

Something in Shiki prepares itself to be thrown on the mattress, even as the rest of him snaps to attention and demands answers.

“Did you find them?”

“Yes. A servant named Akihiya, new. He was pelting down to the Village when I caught up to him. He’s dead now.”

Good gods. That’s messy. “Glavnaya? Did you cover it up?”

“What do you take me for, of course.” Akabayashi shuffles a foot. “Might need an alibi for that time, though. If anyone asks. Tell them we were fucking.”

“Classy. And you’re _sure_ he was Glavnaya?”

“Of course he was, that’s the only damn tribe this castle hires.”

“Oh, you’re right, of course. It’s impossible that the tribes could _collude_ against the monarchy they despise. What _was_ I thinking?” Shiki starts wrestling out of his formal wear. No point in not multitasking. He needs to _move_ while he thinks. Akabayashi better have done a damn good job of covering it up. Murder under his aegis of a member of the only tribe he can count on is unspeakable.

“Well, on the bright side,” Akabayashi says, “no one else saw them.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

Shiki wants to press, but hesitates. He doesn’t know what the eye can see. Akabayashi won’t tell him.

“Then what’s this about giving Izaya language lessons? How suddenly charitable of you. Almost _suspiciously_ charitable.”

Akabayashi is silent. “Well, what can I say? You convinced me. Perhaps if he learns to love Ledaria, he won’t murder you in your marital bed.”

Shiki thinks of Izaya’s small, small frame and small, small arms, and delicate features and soft, pale hands. “I’m sure that’s a _huge_ risk.”

“He’s more than he seems.”

“Of course. He’s trying very hard to appear stupid, and I must say, I’m not entirely sure why.” Shiki lifts an eyebrow. “Was that why you suggested language lessons? To keep a closer eye on him?”

“They weren’t my idea.” Akabayashi seems to be getting rather distracted now that Shiki’s down to his small clothes. Interesting for a man that refuses to wear a shirt. Double-standards.

“Are you telling me that Izaya conned you into agreeing to language lessons at the dinner table?”

Akabayashi’s starting to creep closer. “Just because I agreed doesn’t mean I—”

“You’re doing it.”

Akabayashi stops dead in his tracks. “You aren’t serious. I’m not a _teacher.”_

“You are now.”

“Wha—just because he _conned_ us at the dinner table—”

“I admire that,” Shiki says. “Takes balls. And you don’t want to make a _liar_ of me, do you? And now you can make sure he doesn’t, what was it you said? Murder me in my marital bed?”

“I do so damn much for you,” Akabayashi mutters, crawling onto the other side of the bed and sulking.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to yu for beta'ing. u rock, even when you eat my outlines for breakfast xD

“Any information on how to contact the dragons?” Shiki’s got one of his maps unfurled in front of him. It bears marks where he’s tried to make corrections to the best of his ability, but the knowledge that it’s woefully inaccurate is never far from hand.

“Yeah, apparently Shirou’s heard of a few ways.”

“A _few?”_

“Yeah. Most of them require fire, though, surprise, surprise.”

Shiki turns back to his map. “Well, that’s hardly an issue.”

“We do have a bit of a problem, though,” Akabayashi’s holding a piece of paper at arm’s length, twisting and turning it like it might make itself suddenly clear and reveal its secrets.

“Of course we do. What is it?”

“I haven’t heard of a single one of these plants before in my life.”

“Plants?”

“Yeah,” Akabayashi grunts, “for the magic bit. Can’t just stick your head in a flame and expect it to go well.”

“Do we have correlates? Things that grow here?”

Akabayashi gestures broadly. “I can’t know that,” he says, “if I don’t know _what these are_ to _begin with.”_

“Can you _ask_ him?”

“You don’t think I didn’t try? It’s ‘not his area,’ apparently.”

“Then who’s area is it?”

Akabayashi shrugs. “Maybe Kyouko?”

Shiki throws his hands up. “Sure, let’s tell everyone of our plans. Let’s bring in Kyouko, too. Why don’t we just include the whole damn castle.”

“Not the whole castle, surely,” Akabayashi says mildly, “just the medicine woman. If anyone has any idea, it’s going to be her.”

“No,” Shiki says. “There’s no way she’ll know what those are, she’s never been outside of Glavnaya territory, let alone far enough to known Southern plants and their specific medicinal— magical, _whatever_ properties.”

“Kyouko really does sound like our best bet.”

“Isn’t healing usually left to the men in the South? Got to have arm strength to move those bone saws, after all.”

“The, ah, surgery is left to the men, I believe. But I think their women know at least as much herb lore as ours do. For obvious reasons. I think herb lore might be left just to them. One of their weird gender things.”

“For obvious— ah. Yes. Those sorts of things.”

“And those two tell each other everything,” Akabayashi says with such brash confidence that Shiki can’t even think to question him, even if he wanted to. “So there’s no need to worry about information spread— it already has.”

 

“Mairuuuu~,” Izaya says, swinging around the door frame. “My sweet sister, how are you feeling today?”

“Worse, now that I’ve seen your ugly face,” Mairu says cheerfully, stabbing away at her embroidery. It’s hideous, like everything she creates. She doesn’t even have to, Kyouko doesn’t care and Kururi avoids it like the plague. She just lost the coin toss, he supposes.

“Excellent. Since you’re _absolutely overcome_ with the _agony_ of your time of the month—”

Mairu’s eyes start to glitter with understanding. “Yes, absolutely _intolerable_ pain. Can’t move an inch.”

“I hate to see my darling baby sister in such discomfort,” Izaya supplies, inspecting his nails. “And it’s such a taboo subject, but—”

“I’m so overwhelmed with pain and the newness that I can’t fathom visiting the healer alone.” Mairu rolls her eyes heavenwards. “I get one-hundred percent of what they give me.”

“Seventy.”

“Ninety.”

“Eighty.”

“Fine.” Mairu tosses her embroidery on the bed. “Come on, dearest brother. I have some _marijuana_ to sample.”

“Is that what you think they’ll give you?”

Mairu lifts a shoulder. “It’s worth a shot. I hear they use it for all sorts of aches and pains.” Her eyes turn sly. “And at parties, of course. I hear they have the best parties. Do you think you’re important enough that they’ll throw your marriage one?”

He’s heard _things_ about the ‘parties’ the Northerns throw. He’s heard it’s less of a party and more an orgy, facilitated by natural growing drugs and their own intolerable and incomprehensible religion. He’s heard that they make sacrifices, _human_ sacrifices, and that the party goers ingest the flesh to obtain the blessings of the gods.

“I hope so,” Izaya says, “but I’m not really the deciding factor here. We’ll see if I’ve curried enough favor.”

“Haven’t you fucked him yet?” Mairu says, sounding surprised. “You’ve never exactly been shy about it before—”

“I have appearances to maintain, dear sister.”

“It’s easier to build trust if you’re already fucking him. Or not, you could just stab him while he pounds into you— I read it in a book once. Bring a whole new meaning to ‘double penetration.”

“Fascinating advice. You really do know the ins and outs of the human psyche, don’t you?”

Mairu shrugs. “I know that whatever you’re doing is getting you nowhere.”

“It’s a slow game.”

“Uh-huh.”

Izaya confidently leads down the twisting halls, Mairu keeping pace. “Do we even know where the healer is?”

“ _We_ might not, but _I_ do,” Izaya says, hoping he’s right. He came across it while he wandered at night, trying his hardest to memorize the labyrinth. It was a small room, the same across cultures. The smell of dried plants hung heavy in the air, neat little drawers labeled with a precise hand that he couldn’t read, bandages neatly coiled. His mother keeps a room like that in the house. She even keeps some of the more common poisons in along with the more medicinal of the herbs. There’s nowhere better to hide something than where people would least expect it.

“Pretend to be in pain,” Izaya says casually, and Mairu immediately doubles over wailing. The servant that passes by sends them an odd look, and hesitates, looking uncertain. Izaya sends him a smile that he hopes conveys embarrassment and reassurance in equal measures. He must succeed, because the servant scurries on.

“It’s here, just around the corner.”

The door swings open, unlocked during the day. Inside is much the same except for the addition of one stooped old woman, de-seeding a pod with expert hands. She looks up and says something as they enter. Her hands stop in surprise as she realizes who they are. She says something again, slowly, but that doesn’t make the comprehension come, and she seems to realize this.

Mairu groans, a hand low on her stomach, and Izaya puts what he hopes is the right level of embarrassment into his face.

Comprehension dawns quickly, and she bustles over to a drawer, carefully measuring out dried green leaves, curled into clots. She hands it over, miming a rolling motion. Then, striking a match. She brings two fingers to her mouth to mime smoking, just in case Izaya is especially dense.

“I can’t believe this worked,” Mairu says with a tone of deep thankfulness, right to her face, bowing slightly.

“Shut up, Mairu,” Izaya says in the same tone, fighting for a sheepish look.

Mairu, of course, immediately goes with her treasure to Kururi.

Whatever. Two subjects are better than one, after all.

 

Shiki considers approaching Kyouko at dinner, but he really can’t afford the attention that would bring. If there’s anything that the whole Great Letter Incident has taught him, it’s that the staff in his castle can’t be assumed to be on his side, that he must be careful in all things.

So instead, he roams his own castle, feeling like a fool because he can’t find a woman that found him so easily just the other day.

“Is there anything I can do for you, your majesty?” Orihara Shirou says when he stops by their given rooms.

“No—” he starts to say, before remembering that Akabayashi said they share everything. “Actually, I’m looking for your lady wife. Do you have any idea where she would be?”

“Ah, this’ll be about the herbs, then,” Shirou says. “I was wondering if one of you’d come a-knocking.”

“Please, if you can point me in the direction—”

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Shirou says casually, seeming to not have heard Shiki in the slightest. “Dragons are good, yeah, and some regard them as the be-all-end all, but they’re a desperate man’s gamble.” Shirou rummages around in his sleeves, pulls out a box with tiny rolled paper tubes. Again, Shiki has to remind himself about the differences in culture. Shirou pulls one out with his teeth, but catches Shiki looking. He holds the box out with a sheepish smile. “Sorry, you want one?”

Shiki considers. It’s tempting. But. “I really must find your wife.”

Shirou nods. “Yeah, the dragons do tend to drive a hard bargain. You’ll wanna start early if you’re intending to ride out right after the wedding. It’s only a couple of days away, you know.” Shirou’s callous disregard for even pretending his son’s wedding is something with a touch of love in it is startling. Shiki had rather expected it was Kyouko that had been the driving force behind the whole thing, but he might have to reconsider.

“You know, you might wanna try Izaya. Not that he’s any easier to find than Kyouko when he’s in the mood. But double the chances, am I right?”

“Izaya is also experienced with herbs?”

“Oh, yeah, of course. He’s Kyouko’s apprentice, I guess. He’s good too, if what Kyouko’s been saying is true.” Orihara Shirou snorts, laughing to himself. “Of course it is, she’s not one to hand out praise lightly.”

“I will keep that in mind. Thank you.”

“You know,” Orihara Shirou says, casually, leaning against his door frame. “It occurs to me that if you’d had even a mildly deep conversation with Izaya, you’d know that about him.”

Shiki doesn’t flinch, simply keeps his face straight. “Having just returned from the front lines of a war, I’ve found myself rather busy with the affairs of running my country.”

“And the minor issue of your impending marriage hasn’t been front of your mind?”

“After the war,” Shiki says carefully. He has an expression that reminds Shiki of a storm cloud gathering on the horizon. “We will have all the time in the world to get to know each other. It is my intention to do so then.”

“And what will Izaya do _during_ the war?” Shirou is starting to sound dangerous again. “Is he to sit around and pine? Be a prisoner in his own home until you’re done playing knight?” The words sound rehearsed, but the rage that accompanies them is genuine. He was wrong, obviously Orihara Shirou is very against this marriage and is very concerned for the health and welfare of his son. Perhaps he and Kyouko are not as in sync as he was lead to believe. Or maybe he too is suddenly having doubts now that his debt is coming due and he has to sell his son. Who can tell.

“I think you underestimate your son,” Shiki says quietly, “if you believe that he would allow himself to be any sort of prisoner.” Shiki doesn’t actually know this until he watches Shirou’s face crumple into something like affection.

“You’re right,” he says quietly. But then he points at Shiki with a big, meaty finger. “But that isn’t an excuse to treat him like anything other than—”

“I fully intend to treat him with the utmost respect,” Shiki says.

“No running off and having any bastards,” Shirou says. “He deserves better than that.”

“As a bastard myself,” Shiki says, and watches as Shirou turns sheepish, though not remorseful, “I cannot imagine being cruel enough to do so.”

“It’s just,” Shirou starts, “I heard the Northmen—”

Shiki cuts him off, already tired of the conversation. “I’m terribly sorry, but time really is of the essence,” he says, putting as much heavy imperviousness as he can into his tone. He is, after all, the king and does not have to suffer an explanation of his own countries policies towards bastards.

Shirou blinks. “Yes, of course, your highness.”

But Shiki is off, walking the guest quarters. Miloserdse alone knows where Kyouko wandered off too. He thinks maybe he should be concerned, with all the secrets he has lying around, before he remembers that she can’t speak a word of Nagorny. Still, not a reason to underestimate her, but he’s safe for now.

He’s traveling through the guest halls when he smells it. It’s distinctive, heavy and cloying and almost like rot, but muskier.

Someone got their hands on Prazdnets’ Gift. It’s not exactly a smell he’s unfamiliar with, some of the soldiers use it to relax. He doesn’t _dis_ approve, but he’s not thrilled about it either. Akabayashi’s the one with some sort of vendetta against the stuff. Against most things, really. He’s meant to ask, but never really got the time.

The smell is the heaviest coming from the rooms he set aside for the twins.

How on earth would they—

Ah. Girl twins. His own mother used it monthly, he shouldn’t fault them for that, he supposes. The herb woman wouldn’t want them to suffer.

He knocks on Izaya’s door.

“Come in!” Comes the sing-song reply.

Alright then. He pushes open the door. Izaya’s sitting on his bed, wearing the same clothes he saw at breakfast, for once, plus what looks like a scarf tied around his neck.

He’s got a journal on his knees and what looks like a pencil in the other. Huh, he’s left handed. That’s sign of good luck.

“Mairu, how—” Izaya looks up and pauses, eyes wide, he stands up, trying to hide his notebook behind his back. “Shiki,” Izaya blurts. “I mean, Haruya. To what do I owe the honor? Not that I’m not happy to see you, of course.” He’s babbling. Maybe he snuck a hit off his sister’s stash. Or maybe he was just in the same room. He’s not sure why Kimiya didn’t tell them to take it as a tea, that’s how his mother did it.

No, his eyes aren’t red. Well, not in the whites, anyway.

He realizes he’s staring and composes himself, clearing his throat.

“I hear you’re something of a master when it comes to herbs.”

Izaya’s brow falls into something like irritation, corners of his mouth turning downwards just the tiniest fraction before he recovers.

“Where did you hear that?”

“Your father.”

The irritation becomes something like resignation, minute as it is. Izaya’s trying so hard to keep literal wide-eyed innocence that he can see the strain at the corners. The expression collapses into bashfulness, averted eyes and a faint blush of pink.

“Well,” Izaya says. “I’m not sure master is the right word.”

It definitely is the right word. It’s there in the pride he can’t keep out of his voice, how he’s trying to mask his reactions to being caught out.

Why would he hide it though? Does Shiki need to watch his food and drink? Is it an embarrassing hobby for nobles back home, improper in some way? Another facet of his intelligence that he’s striving to hide?

“All the same,” Shiki says, pulling Shirou’s paper out of his pocket. “I need you to tell me what magical properties these might have.”

Izaya takes the list, looking it over in surprise. “What’s the purpose?”

“Pardon?”

“What will you be using these for?” Izaya says, slowly. “Most plants have more than one property, if I know the purpose I might better tell you what role it’s trying to fill. You’re looking to find native correlates, correct?”

“Yes. I can have that part taken care of, if you can tell me their uses.”

Izaya’s eyes look sharp, and he’s clearly aiming for casual when he says: “and who would you ask?”

“Akabayashi’s trained in some herblore,” Shiki says, and he can see Izaya’s disappointment. “But if you’re interested, I can arrange for you to study under our herb woman when your, ah, Ledarian is better. I can have books sent in the meantime.”

There’s a war on Izaya’s face in broad daylight. Deny it, and struggle for another opportunity like this, crippling his own knowledge but strengthen his air headed persona or seize what he really wants.

“That would be lovely, thank you,” Izaya decides, with a small bow. “Now, what are these herbs for?”

 

Shiki comes back with Shirou’s list clutched in one hand and a strange look on his face.

“What has you so spooked?”

“Did you know Izaya is apparently skilled in herblore?”

Oh, _Izaya,_ now, is it?

Akabayashi grunts. “No. Why should I? Isn’t that a woman’s job down there?”

Shiki’s face smooths somewhat, but not entirely.

“What, you gonna be watching your drink from now on? Come, on, that’s insane.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“He would at least wait until after the wedding, he doesn’t seem like a total idiot.”

Shiki’s face scrunches right back up again. Akabayashi walks over so he can wrap his arms around Shiki’s waist, front to back. Shiki’s stiff as a board, because of course he is. He worries too much, sometimes.

Not that your future consort being some sort of _poisoner_ is something that can be discarded lightly, but all the same.

“He has no access to the kitchens,” Akabayashi says. “Doesn’t speak the language. You know how territorial the girls down in the kitchen can be.”

Shiki is still stiff but less so. Akabayashi rubs Shiki’s stomach in a way that might risk his hand if Shiki’s not in a mood for it.

Shiki tolerates it, but doesn’t lean back into Akabayashi like he’s supposed to. This whole dragon thing’s got him really tied into knots.

“I have an idea of what might be suitable replacements,” Shiki says, shaking out of Akabayashi’s arms. “I’ll go grab them from the storage area, and I’ll meet you in my rooms.”

“Your rooms? Not that I’m complaining, but what’s wrong with the fireplace here?”

“Izaya says that the herbs on the list lend themselves to transportation, but not anything with temporal stability.”

Oh, does he now?

“So, it’s possible that, due to our distance, you might have a delay of several hours on each side, traveling. If that’s the case, I’d prefer you to be in my rooms at midnight instead of roaming the halls.”

“Oh, you would, would you?” Akabayashi can’t help the lascivious grin. He really makes it too easy.

Shiki doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even bother to play along. “Flirt when this is over.”

“Yes, sir,” Akabayashi sighs. He really was more fun _before_ he ascended to the throne.

Shiki walks out of the room, and for the first time, Akabayashi wonders if he could really _lose_ Shiki to the fluttering pretty thing that sashayed into their lives.

Probably not, Shiki doesn’t seem to trust him.

But something to look out for.

He makes his way leisurely to Shiki’s room, not caring who sees, maybe even revealing in it a little. It will help Shiki with a cover story, that the herbs are for Sex Things, and definitely not for _Dragons._

Which they didn’t discuss, but he’s sure Shiki already _knows._

Shiki’s rooms are in the royal wing, technically. Really, only barely. They’re by far the smallest rooms in the wing, the ones Shiki was given when he was old enough that sharing a room with his mother was no longer appropriate. By all rights, he should be in the king’s rooms, larger than the current ones by a factor of three, and, more importantly, a nexus for the secret passageways that criss-cross the palace.

It’s also got a “secret door” that connects it to the “queen’s” rooms where Shiki intends to house Izaya long term. It’s not like Izaya will get pregnant either way, but _pretending_ to have sex with and like your spouse has long been the name of the game in these halls.

Except Shiki does ( _did)_ have those half-brothers, so maybe there was a little more than _pretending_ going on.

Maybe Shiki shouldn’t change rooms.

Shiki’s rooms are spare, not having much of anything, really, in the way of decoration. The only real signs that this isn’t a servant’s quarters are the thickness of the mattress and the quality of the clothes, but even those are getting a bit worn and shabby. And really, Shiki doesn’t own anything appropriate for a Southern style wedding, they’ll have to make a stop in the village soon to see if something can be done, and fast. The wedding draws ever nearer.

Finally, Shiki comes through the door, a small, clinking bag in one hand.

“Get everything?”

“I think so. Someone really need to relabel the drawers, the labels are cracking.”

“Maybe your boy can do it,” Akabayashi says airily, “when he’s you know. Fluent.” Like he’ll ever be.

To his dismay, Shiki’s nodding and seems to be considering it. “I was hoping so.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I _am_ serious, but now isn’t the time for this.” Shiki is tapping out the contents of the bottles onto his lone table, stirring them with a finger and dividing them into two piles. “The instructions weren’t clear if you need the same mixture to bring you back, so we’ll err on the side of caution.Give you some to get you back.”

“Aww, you _do_ care.” Shiki glares but lets himself be kissed. _Of course I do,_ he might as well have screamed to the heavens. Akabayashi is very fluent in Shiki-ese, and this is the only possible translation.

Shiki builds a fire with practiced ease, and it burns cheerfully in mere moments.

“Off you go,” Shiki says. “Be careful.”

“When am I not?”

The fire turns an alarming shade of green when he sprinkles the herbs on, and before Shiki can say another word, he steps through and into another world.

 

“I’m saying it _exactly_ like you’re saying it!”

“No, you are saying it _wrong._ Stop putting your tongue near your upper teeth, it should be near your _lower._ Now, _again._ ”

Izaya’s fingernails dig briefly into his palms. “We’ve been working on these five words for three days!”

“And yet you barely manage to say them right. What does that say about you?”

“How many times do we have to go over this one word, I really feel our time could be better spent—”

“No, it would not. I am teaching you words with sounds _specific_ to the language. If you do not get these right, you will get other words wrong, and it will take more work to fix. You need to have the basics right to build upon them. Now, again, watch how my mouth moves.” Akabayashi pronounces the word again, slowly, and Izaya’s going to be hearing it in his dreams come nightfall.

But Izaya dutifully repeats it back, being sure to keep his tongue near his bottom teeth.

“Good. Once you can say it ten times without fail, we will move on.”

Izaya’s head thunks against the wood of the table.

“Do you want to learn or not?”

“I wanna learn.”

“Then sit up. No pupil of mine will fail.”

The door opens behind him, and Akabayashi’s eyes flick over his shoulder, and he says something that _still_ remains beyond Izaya’s grasp.

But Izaya knows the returning rumble. “Is Akabayashi teaching you well?” Shiki says, coming in to peek over Izaya’s shoulder.

“That remains to be seen, I suppose.”

There’s a slate in front of Izaya where the accursed word has been printed for him to copy and slave over and stare at, and Shiki traces underneath where Izaya has made an attempt with a finger. “Your handwriting is beautiful.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Izaya doesn’t need much to blush and flutter.

“You’re distracting my pupil,” Akabayashi growls.

“Actually, I was hoping to borrow him,” Shiki says, settling a hand on Izaya’s shoulder. “If you can spare him for a moment, of course. It’s a beautiful day for a ride.”

“We were just about done for the day.” Akabayashi follows this up with something in Leda— _Nagorny._

“Excellent,” Shiki says. “Izaya, would you care to go for a ride? There is something I think you should see.”

This prompts something from Akabayashi that Shiki doesn’t respond to.

“Oh, of course, I’d love to.”

“Excellent. I’m sure you’ll want to change— I will meet you in the courtyard.”

 

The door is barely closed behind Izaya when Akabayashi starts to chew him out. “What on earth are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking to take my fiance to my hometown,” Shiki says. “Perfectly innocent. I’m sure they’ll love to meet him.”

“There’s a _dead body—”_ Akabayashi stops. “You aren’t thinking…”

“It doesn’t look bad if Izaya discovers him,” Shiki says. “Actually, it looks awful. But it doesn’t look like _we’ve_ done it.”

“This is an awful plan,” Akabayashi says. “Are you forgetting that it was someone from that tribe that stole secret missives?”

“Hardly. Don’t you think this a fantastic opportunity to _look_ for who it might be that was set to receive them?

“No,” Akabayashi says. “I think it’s a horrible time. And there doesn’t _have_ to be someone there to receive the news, isn’t it enough of a scandal that the High King is having other tribes _sabotaged?”_

“Maybe,” Shiki concedes. “But it’s still a decent way of having the body found.”

“Fine. Fine,” Akabayashi says, throwing his hands up.

The room is silent. Deathly silent for a long moment.

“Has it caught up with you?” Akabayashi says, quietly. “That it’s three days from now?”

“Nothing needs to change,” Shiki says, quietly. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Doesn’t it?” Akabayashi says, suddenly very tired. “Doesn’t it?”

 

When Shiki said “ride,” Izaya expected horses. He expected to be given a tiny little pony with no backbone. Or perhaps a warhorse with a hatred for anything sitting on its back and foreigners in particular.

But this is another level.

It’s huge, far bigger than a horse by at least a factor of two. It looks like it could flatten a row of houses with barely a thought, let alone his puny and fragile frame.

The animal glances back at him with dull eyes that are clearly unimpressed with his lack of bulk.

“What is this?”

“It’s a. I do believe you’d call it a horse?” Shiki tries, busy adjusting straps and harnesses that apparently make it possible to ride upon these behemoths and exemplify the audacity of man far more clearly than anything else Izaya can think of.

“I really don’t think so,” Izaya tries to say politely. “Horses are small. And don’t eat meat.”

“These do not eat meat either.”

“Then why is his,” Izaya points at the animal that Akabayashi is leaning casually against, clearly enjoying Izaya’s discomfort, “chewing on a _bone?_ ”

Shiki cranes his neck over the animal, “What?”

“ _Akabayashi,_ ” Izaya hears, before a long stream of Nagorny.

He can’t understand the reply, but he _can_ understand the faux-innocent tone and honey-sweet reply.

“I’m sorry,” Shiki says to him. “Akabayashi and his steed are… _special._ ”

Akabayashi has something to say to that, but it’s lost to Izaya and doesn’t seem to affect Shiki.

“Well, what do you call them? I’m sure it’s not ‘horse,’ ne?”

“Nosrog. This one’s name is N—, she is a bit older and shouldn’t give you much trouble.”

N—’s lone eye seems to say that she rather doubts Izaya is worth it.

“Here, let me give you a boost.”

“Oh, no, I’m sure I can—”

Strong hands wrap around his waist and plop him on top of the saddle like he weighs nothing.

On second thought, he does need help. He will also need help riding this….evil hell fiend and getting down and possibly walking back to his rooms.

Akabayashi, of course, has a remark. Izaya wonders if he should tell him his verbal warfare would be more effective if Izaya could actually understand it.

Nah, let him think that the mystery gets to him.

Shiki trots up on his hell-beast. “Are we ready?”

“Yeah, I got the picnic basket already,” Akabayashi says, swinging up onto his bone-crushing beast.

“Where are we going, anyway?” Izaya says as his nosrog trundles out of the front gates.

“My hometown.”

“Oh, you didn’t grow up here?”

“Partially,” Shiki says, with a tone that doesn’t invite more questions down that path.

“So…” Izaya searches for what precious little he knows about Ledarian culture. Tribes. Everyone knows they have _tribes. “_ What tribe is it?”

“Glavnaya,” Shiki says, actually dropping back to ride next to Izaya.

Oooh, attention. Shiki wants to talk about this.

“What other tribes are around here?”

“Around here, the keep? The Glavnaya are the closest. Most of our staff come from there.”

“Was your mother from there?”

“Yes,” Shiki says. And then rides forward so they’re in single file. Touchy bastard.

It’s otherwise a silent, peaceful ride to the tribe-village-thing.

Izaya takes in the scenery—

And then promptly gets bored. Which would be fine, he’s a world unto himself, fascinating ideas a mile a minute, but he hasn’t exactly gone riding _on a horse_ in a long while and a nosrog is just a _tad bit_ wider and it’s making his knees ache and his thighs burn.

“What kind of tree is that?”

“A maple.”

“Like maple syrup?”

“Yes.”

“What’s that little flower that grows at the bottom?”

“Nettle.”

“Do you have snakes here?”

“Snake?” Shiki says. It’s not genuine curiosity, though. He’s just trying to throw Izaya off. He can feel it.

“You know, noodle shaped. Has scales. Goes _hssss,_ ” he says, curling his fingers into an approximation of fangs. Shiki is unimpressed with his pantomiming skills.

“No. We have no danger noodles,” Shiki says. Is he teasing him? It’s hard to tell, he sounds so sincere. But no one says _danger noodle_ seriously.

“Then what kinds of animals _do_ you have?”

“Furry ones.”

“Oh.”

There’s silence. Izaya lets it drag on until Shiki’s shoulders start to slump ahead of him.

“So, what about the Glavnaya tribe do I need to know?”

“You?” Akabayashi says. “Nothing.”

Izaya pouts. “I think I should be allowed to learn about the country I’m about to live in the rest of my life,” he says petulantly.

“What _sort_ of thing do you want to know?” Shiki says, and he sounds resigned.

“I don’t know. Do they eat people?”

“Only stupid Imperials,” Akabayashi drawls.

Shiki shoots Akabayashi a dirty look. Or maybe it’s Izaya. Hard to tell. “No. They do not eat people. They grow plants.”

“Oh, so they’re vegetarians.”

“Pardon?”

“Vegetarians. They don’t eat meat.”

Shiki and Akabayashi are giving him looks, ranging from polite disbelief to disgust.

“I suppose that’s a ‘no’ then.”

“Are, you perhaps, one of these ‘vegetarians?’” Shiki says tentatively.

“Oh, man, you’re going to _starve_ during the winter,” Akabayashi says gleefully.

“We will have to make some changes to our stores,” Shiki says.

“Well, I’m not _personally_ vegetarian,” Izaya says. “It’s just something that people are.”

“But _why?_ ” Akabayashi says, obviously still somewhat horrified.

“Some don’t like to hurt animals. Some believe that God prohibits harm of—”

Akabayashi snorts loudly.

Shiki says something sharply.

Izaya can’t wait until he can understand them and they won’t be able to get away with this shit. But at the rate lessons with Akabayashi are going—

Well.

He’ll just have to find himself another teacher.

“How much further is this village?” Izaya says.

“Hard to say,” Shiki says carefully.

“How so?”

“Because we’re going so slow,” Akabayashi says, picking at his teeth.

“Why?”

“Because you sit on the nosrog like it’s about to eat you,”Akabayashi says.

“It’s a lovely day,” Shiki says. “A nice day for a ride.”

“We’re not going to make it before sundown at this rate,” Akabayashi mutters.

Shiki snaps something in Nargorny, and Akabayashi mutters back, and then Shiki is right beside Izaya. A strong arm loops around his waist, tugging. Izaya decides not to fight it, leaning into Shiki’s body. The other arm snags his trailing legs, and then he’s tucked tight in front of Shiki, two arms to keep him secure in place.

 _“Faster!”_ Shiki barks, and the nosrog picks up speed.

 _Faster._ One of the words Akabayashi labored to teach him.

He chances a look over Shiki’s shoulder, but can’t see anything over the armor biting into his cheek.

 

They make good time into the village, after Shiki scoops Izaya off his nosrog.

Thankfully, it’s a smooth maneuver, almost like they had practiced it. He’s seen maneuvers on Nosrogs go south before, and it’s never been pretty. But Izaya is docile in his lap, content to bask in the security he receives from pressing heavily against Shiki’s chest.

It occurs to Shiki that they’ll be married in two days, and this is probably the most affection he’s shown him.

Shit.

It’s not like Izaya’s snuggling into him or anything. There’s nothing to suggest that this is anything _affectionate._

 _But it is_ , a traitorous part of him says, _and you know he’ll take it that way._

He’ll just make Izaya ride on his own on the way back.

No matter how damn long it will take.

Izaya starts shifting about a half hour’s ride from the village, stirring and peeking around Shiki’s armor.

“What can you grow here? It’s not terribly flat.”

“Doesn’t need to be flat to grow,” Shiki says. “But mostly rice. Some squash and other vegetables. Things that can be canned and dried.”

“No berries?”

“They grow wild. No point in cultivating.”

“What about animals?” Izaya says, trying to peer at Shiki’s face.

“Nothing large, like the. Ah.” What’s that animal? He remembers it from the picture books when he was just starting to read, an odd creature he hadn’t seen then and still hasn’t seen now. Apparently the Southern states continue to drink the milk made for other young when their own mothers run dry. What a bizarre culture. “Milk-makers?”

“Cows,” Izaya supplies.

“Yes. None of those.”

“There’s no milk here?” Izaya says, and he doesn’t exactly sound broken up about it.

“Milk is for babies,” Shiki replies, because he’s not exactly sure how to answer that.

“Oh, alright,” Izaya says, sounding amused. “So what animals do you raise?”

“Chickens,” Shiki says, reaching for words from long, long ago, “pigs. Wolves.”

“Wolves? You mean dogs, don’t you?”

“Ah, no.”

They’re nearing the narrow canyon that serves as an unofficial border between the Glavnaya and the rest of the world. Izaya crinkles his nose. “Do you smell that?”

He’s shimmying off the nosrog, out of Shiki’s grasp like it’s nothing, hitting the dirt and scampering over to the edge of the gorge.

 _“Watch him!”_ Akabayashi calls, but Izaya doesn’t fall, just peers down over the edge. It’s better than either of them could have _hoped._

“There’s body down there,” Izaya says, “looks like he was crushed under one of your—your _nosrogs_.”

Clever, clever, Akabayashi.

“We’ll tell the chieftain,” Shiki says, “when we get to the village. They’ll arrange a burial.”

“How will they get out of this gully?”

“Pulleys, I imagine,” Shiki says. “Now come on back, we only have a little ways to go.”

“Why not walk?” Izaya says, voice slow and sly. “We’ve been riding for ages now.”

“Because you can’t be seen walking when your husband is riding,” Akabayashi snaps. “It sends the wrong signals.”

Izaya wanders back over to Krolick’s side. “And just when I thought we were having a _moment,_ ” he says, voice not quite hurt, but not far from it either.

Shiki grabs the back of his collar and hauls him up.

It’s a quiet ride the rest of the way.

Shiki tells himself the queasy feeling in his gut is the result of the stench of the body, no matter how used to it he’s supposed to be.

 


End file.
